“What shall we do?” she asked. “After having refused to see a priest, and flown into a rage whenever we mentioned the subject, at last he is willing to have one. But he will see no one but F. O’Donovan; and F. O’Donovan is laid up with gout, so that he cannot move hand or foot. I went out to him to‐day, and I thought that if he could possibly be wrapped up and brought in in a carriage, I would ask him; but, father, I couldn’t have the face to speak of it. The doctor doesn’t allow him to stir out of his room. Even Mrs. Gerald sees that it can’t be done. I’ve begged Lawrence to listen to reason, but he is so set that if he had asked to have the Pope himself, he’d be mad if we didn’t send a messenger to Rome. I could send to L—— for a priest, but that might be too late. He is failing very much. I do wish you’d go once again, father.” F. Chevreuse had already been twice, and had been denied admittance in terms anything but respectful. “Certainly I will go,” he said. “I should have come up this evening, if I had not been sent for. Poor Lawrence! I cannot understand why he should have such a prejudice against me.” It was early twilight when they reached the house, and, as they entered, the lamps burned with a faint ray, as if they, like all sounds and sights in that place, had been muffled. “You go right up and tell him there’s no one to be got but me,” F. Chevreuse said. But Mrs. Ferrier shrank back. “He never will consent if I ask him.” “Annette, then.” “He won’t allow Annette near him,” the mother sighed. “John,” said the priest, “will you go up and tell Mr. Gerald that I am here to see him?” “I wouldn’t venture to, sir,” John answered. “I don’t believe it’s of any use; and if you’d take my advice, sir....” Even Mrs. Ferrier was scandalized by the man’s presumption, and faltered out an “O John!” “I will go myself,” F. Chevreuse interrupted. “Stay down here, all you people, and say the rosary for my success. Say it with all your hearts. And don’t come up‐stairs till you are called.” As he went up, a door near the landing softly opened, and in it stood the young wife with a face so woful and deathlike that tears would have seemed joyful in comparison. She said not a word, but stood and looked at the priest in a kind of terror. “My poor child!” he said pityingly, “why do you stay here alone, killing yourself with grief? Go and stay with your mother and Honora till I come down.” She made that painful effort to speak which shows that the mouth and throat are dry, and, when words came, they were but a whisper. “O father!” she said, “don’t go in there if you have any human weakness left in you! You have to be an angel and not a man to hear my husband’s confession. Find some one else for him. He will not speak to you.” “Never fear, child!” he answered firmly. “I may have human weakness, but I have the strength of God to help me resist it.”