“Are you?” he answered. “But have you seen my Tiber? Look how beautiful it is through this window.” And the Monsignor pointed to the yellow muddy waters that always filled Irene with disgust, when comparing it with the clear, blue rivers of Russia. The conversation turned to the Orthodoxy, and Lefrène showed himself to be like most Catholic priests, closely acquainted with Russian Church matters. In addition, he had many friends among the higher Russian clergy. Irene purposely began to speak of the suggested Orthodox Church Council, which she had discussed also with Cardinal R⸺. Monsignor looked displeased. “But why do you want a council?” he asked. “Why?” exclaimed Irene. “One of our great writers has said that the Orthodox Church has been paralyzed since the days of Peter the Great. With the election of a patriarch, she may perhaps recover, and pronounce some new word.” Lefrène shook his head. “Oh! La nouvelle vérité ne sortira jamais de l’église,” he remarked with conviction. Irene was amazed. “I don’t understand,” she stammered questioningly. Monsignor smiled. “Comment voulez vous qu’un prêtre émette une idée nouvelle,” he said, “quand la coupole de Saint Pierre pèse sur des épaules?” “Yes, but we Russians have no ‘Saint Peter’s,’” observed Irene quietly. “Eh bien, vous avez la coupole de Moscou! Dans chaque religion, toujours une coupole quelconque pesera sur le prêtre et lui fermera la bouche”—and a deep sadness trembled in poor Lefrène’s voice. “But even if so,” said Irene, “the council might improve the education of our clergy, and teach them to cultivate warmer relations with their flocks.” And in her turn she could not restrain the note of personal sorrow and regret that echoed in her words. “Oh, I have heard all those complaints before, especially from your late philosopher, Vladimir Solovyof,” replied Monsignor. “He once related me a very characteristic legend in this connection,” and, with his subtle smile, Lefrène repeated the legend of Saint Nicholas, supposed to be of Russian origin. Saint Nicholas, accompanied by the Reverend Cassian, once came down from heaven, on a visit to earth. On the great highway they met a poor peasant, the wheels of whose cart had become embedded in the mud of the roadside, and he was vainly exerting himself almost beyond his strength to extricate them. “Let us help him,” said the charitable Saint Nicholas. “No, that is impossible,” replied the Reverend Cassian scornfully. “We should soil our white robes.” But Saint Nicholas paid no attention to him, and set to work to help the peasant. Both horse and cart were soon standing safely in the dry roadway, but several splashes of mud had stained the snowy whiteness of the Saint’s raiment. When God heard of this occurrence, He ordered that from thenceforward the memory of Saint Nicholas was to be honoured twice a year, but that of the Rev. Cassian only once in four years. (The festival of Saint Cassian falls on the 29th of February!)