Life of Saint Monica

f us, and has its effect on all with whom we come in contact. It is like a subtle breath that braces the spirit to good, or relaxes it to evil, but never leaves it untouched or

ciously or unconsciously, we give an upward lift or a downward push to all who come in contact with us. Happily for

not born ready-made; holiness is a beautiful thing that is built up sto

confess how far she had fallen short of the ideal she had set herself to attain. And yet there had been ceaseless effort, ceaseless praye

e obliged to ask help of others. Monica, reading her heart as only the unselfish can, saw this and understood. At every moment the older woman would find that some little service had been don

but that was all. It was all, indeed, that was expected of them. Not Patricius, either; it

ut then, the slaves had told her unpleasant stories of their young mistress; it was only what she deserved. And yet .... It was hard to think of those

respect and deference to her wishes, never trying to assert herself, never appealing to her husband to give

they all do, Without Monica? With a sudden pang of sorrow she realized how much she leant upon her daughter-in-law, what her life would be without her. S

hey had told her about their young mistress. They faltered, contradic

were as soundly beaten as they had ever been in their lives, after which they were told that they knew what to expect if they ever breathed another word against their young mistress again. As it happened, they had no desire to do so. The hidden forces had be

told her frankly that she had been in the wrong, and asked her forgiveness. Monica clasped the

h by her life, her daily actions, and to the other it was a beautiful and alluring revel

as a catechumen. It was not long before she knelt at Monica's side before the altar to be signed o

at brought such peace and light to suffering and weary souls. Was it for such as they? they asked.

s were opening slowly to the beauty of spiritual things. The old life, with its old pleasures, was growing distasteful to him; he saw its baseness while as yet he could scarcely tear himself free from its fetters-the fetters

an invincible power to better things. She would speak to him of their children-above all, of Augustine, their eldest-born, the admiration of his masters at

heavy. Patricius's means were limited, but he resolved to do his utmost for his eldest son. Carthage had a reputation for culture and for learning that was second only to that of Rome. If strict economy were practised at home, Ca

fe they had led together before he went to Madaura would begin again. Again her boy would hang on her arm and tell her all his hopes and dreams for the future-hopes and dreams into which she always entered, of which she was alwa

ad left at Madaura two years ago. The days of the old familiar friendship seemed to have gone past recall. His eyes no longer turned to her with the old candou

ther's apron-strings. The moment that Monica had so dreaded for Augustine had come then; the pagan influence

ts to break through th

between himself and her

into which she did no

!-from hers. A dark c

o flower. Asphodels stood knee-deep on either side of the path in which they walked; the fragrance of the springtime was in their nostrils; the golden su

im, of the dangers that beset his path. He must hold fast to the

-shame and honour were tugging at his heart-strings, but in vain. The bet

aid to himself. "I a

shold she met Patricius. He wanted to speak to her, he said. She slipped her arm into his, smiling through her pain, and the

light. It was dim as yet, and he was still weak; but the old life and the old religion had grown hateful to him. Her God was the true G

od was good. He had heard her prayers, He had accepted her sacrifice. Surely He would give her b

hat thoughts were in his heart? Was it the last struggle between good and evil? Was the influence of his mother, the love of Christ she had instilled into him in his childhood, making one l