"Ay, indeed," he said, and there was a faint halo around his face. "Three things--work, Dolores, and my weekly hour. I have trampled all my bitterness under the hoofs of hard work. I have my first chapter of 'The Cappadocians' ready for the printer. I tell you work is a noble tonic. It was the best thing Carlyle wrote,--that essay on Work. Then this afflicted child shames me. She takes her crucifixion so gloriously. And last, but not least, when I pass my hour before the Blessed Sacrament--an hour is a long time, Father Dan, and you think of a lot of things--and when all the Christian philosophy about shame, and defeat, and suffering, and ignominy comes back to me, I assure you I have been angry with myself, and almost loathe myself for being such a coward as to whimper under such a little trial." "Very good! Now, that's common sense. Have you heard from the Board?" "Yes; that's all right. They are going to hold an investigation to try and make that French steamer responsible, as I believe she is, for two reasons: she was going full speed in the fog; and she should have observed the rule of the road, or of the sea, that a steamer is always bound to give way to a sailing vessel. And I am becoming thoroughly convinced now, from all that I can hear, that it was no accident. I should like to know what took that steamer away from the fleet, and five miles out of her ordinary course. I'm sure the Board will mulct her heavily." "But has the Board jurisdiction over foreign vessels ten or twelve miles from shore?" "That I don't know. I wish Ormsby were home." "So do I, except for the tragedy we'll have to witness with that poor child." "Have you heard lately?" "Not since she wrote from Paris." "Alice had a letter from Florence yesterday. Such a pitiful letter, all about her father. There was a good deal that Alice did not understand,--about Dante, and Savonarola, and the Certosa,--but she said I'd explain it. Clearly she knows nothing as yet."