“Well, well, we are none of us perfect,” said the priest consolingly; “but I think ye should try to remember one thing, Mrs. Kellar. It’s a great thing we are doing here for the poor, and there’s a many would like to see something of the kind prevail all through the land; but that sort of thing, Mrs. Kellar, ye may call it Communism, or Socialism, or whatever ye like, but av there isn’t self-control and loving-kindness at the bottom of it, ’twill be a hell on earth.” “Indeed, you are right, Father, and I’ve said so already many a time,” returned Frau Kellar, with her apron to her eyes; “but it don’t tie my tongue when I once get to scolding.” “Nothing will do that but the grace of God,” said the priest. “Av ye was a Catholic, ye’d have the Sacraments to help ye; but, sure, even as a Protestant, ye have Him who is above all Sacraments. There’s a little book I lent Miss Sally once about the Blessed Laurence. He was a poor lay brother in a monastery; but he had an abiding sense of the presence of God, even amongst his pots and kettles. Sure, he said it made no difference to him whether he was kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament, itself, or working in his kitchen—it was the monastery cook he was—for God was with him just the same. And so, av his pots boiled over, or his subordinates failed in their duty, or whatever happened, he was always at peace, and never ruffled or excited about anything.” “I could never be as good as that,” sighed Frau Kellar. “Sure, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” returned the priest encouragingly. “Anyhow, it’s the only cure for speaking first and thinking after, to have your mind full of Him and your heart of His love. For out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh, and then the afterthought would find nothing to repent of.” “You’ll lend me the book, won’t you, Father?” she asked humbly. “Do you suppose the Blessed Laurence was better than Miss Sally?” “I’ll lend ye the book with pleasure, but ye’ll find little there beyond what I’ve told ye. There was but little to say of a poor, ignorant man that could not even read. And as for Miss Sally, sure, it’s not for me to measure degrees of goodness; but I’ll tell ye one thing, if Miss Sally _is_ a saint, she’s not aware of it. Is it going you are? God be good to you,” and, as he pressed her hand, the good little man added, “Av ye was a Catholic, ye know, I could be of more use to ye.” “Sure, I ought to have tried harder to convert her to the true faith,” he thought, when he was left alone; “but she might have been the death of poor Lena av I’d distracted her mind with arguments, so I applied the remedy that was handiest; but it’s the best, after all, for all beliefs, and maybe He don’t see the difference between Catholic and Protestant that some of us do here below.”