The Lake

Glynn to Father

ON STREE

e 8,

ER GO

nce, and it makes me regret that I gave Father O'Grady permission to write to you; he asked me so often, and his kindness is so winning, that I could not refuse him anything. He said you would certainly have begun to see that you had done me a wrong, and I often answered that I saw no reason why I should trouble to soothe your conscience. I do not

A GL

nd gone about congratulating themselves on their wise administration. But he had acted rightly, Father O'Grady had approved of what he had done; and this was his reward. She'll never come back, and will never forgive him; and ever since writing to her he had indulged in dreams of her return to Ireland, thinking how pleasant it would be to go down to the lake in the mornings, and stand at the end of the sandy spit looking across the lake towards Tinnick, full of the thought that she was there with his sisters earning her living. She wouldn'

your other lette

andwriting; it was

rady to Father

e 8,

FATHER

put me in a very difficult position, for I should have to tell certain friends of mine, to whom I recommended her, that she was not all that we imagined her to be. But all's well that ends we

hearted or cruel. The impression that her story left on my mind was that your allusions to her in your sermon were unpremeditated. Your letter is proof that I was not mistaken, and I am sure the lesson you have received

am,

incerel

EL O'G

. So he invented an excuse postponing his intervention until the morrow, and when he returned home tired with roaming, he stopped on his door-step. 'The matter is over now, her letter is final,' he said. But he awoke in a different mood next morning; everything appeared to him in a different light, and he wondered, surprised to find t

he obliged to answer it? O'Grady wouldn't misunderstand his silence. But there had been misunderstandings enough; and before he had walked the garden's length half a dozen conclusive reasons for writing occurred to him. First of all Father O'Grady's kindness in writing to ask him to stay with him, added to which the fact that Nora would, of course, tell Father O'Grady she had been invited to teach in the convent; her vanity

ver Gogarty to

NARD,

e 12

ATHER O

ight to consider her own interests. She can make more money in London than she could in Ireland. I forgot that she couldn't bring her baby with her, remembering only that my eldest sister is Mother Abbess in the Tinnick Convent-a very superior woman, if I may venture to praise my own sister. The convent was very poor at one time, but she has made the school a success, and, hearing that she wanted someone who would teach music and s

anks to your kindness. But I dare not think what might not have happened if she had not met you. Perhaps when you have time you will write again; I shall be glad to he

ne of these days to have the plea

ery tru

ER GO

rady to Father

e 18

ATHER G

, but I do wish you to forgive her somewhat intemperate letter. I'll speak to her about it, and I am sure she will write to you in a more kindly spirit later on; meanwhile, rest assured that she is doing well, and not forgetful of the past. I shall try to keep a watchful eye over her, seeing that she attends to her duties every month; there is no better sa

be of a twofold nature: she will help Mr. Poole with his literary work and she will also give music lessons to his daughter Edith. Mr. Poole lives in Berkshire, and wants her to come down at once, which means she will have to leave me in the lurch. "You will be without an organist," she writes, "and will have to put up with Miss Ellen McGowan until you can get a better. She may improve-I hope and

ar if it were possible to do so. I don't think it is the money; I think it is change that tempts her. Well, it tempts us all, and though I am much disappointed at losing her, I cannot be angry with her, for I cannot forget that I often want change myself, and the longing to get out of London is sometimes almost irresistible. I do not know you

truly

EL O'G

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ATHER O

lities were at an end than your letter comes, and I am thrown back into all my late an

llen her if you had not met her. But God is good, and he sent you to her, and everything seems to have happened for the best. She was in

its me better and am going away to-morrow." Of course she has her child to think of. But have you made inquiries? I suppose you must have done. You would not let her go away to a man of whom you know nothing. She says that he is the father of one of her pupils. But she doesn't know him, yet she is going to li

to Mass every Sunday? I hope you have made all these inquiries, and if you have not made them, will you make them at once and writ

very si

ER GO

that he had shown so much agitation, and he stopped to think. But it was so natural that he should be concerned about Nora Glynn. All the same, his anxiety might strike Father O'Grady as exaggerated. A temperate letter, he reflected, is always better; and the evening was spent in writing another letter to Father O'Grady, a much longer one, in which he thanked Father O'Grady for asking him to come to see him if he should ever find himself in London. 'Of course,' he wrote, 'I shall be only too pleased to call on you, and no doubt we shall have a great deal to talk about-two Irishmen always have; and when I feel the need of change imminent, I will try to go to London, and do you, Father O'Grady, when you need a change, come to Ireland. You write: "I do not know your part of the country, but I know what an Irish lake is like, and I often long to see one again." Well, come and see my lake; it's very beautiful. Woods exte

very si

ER GO

e began to feel sorry for Father O'Grady. But his sorrow was suddenly suspended. If he went to London he wouldn't be likely to see her. 'Another change,' he said; 'things are

Father Oliver sat looking through the room. Awaking suddenly, he tried to remember what he had been thinking about, for he had been thinking a long while; but he could not recall his thoughts, and went to his writing-table and began a long letter telling Father O'Grady about Kilronan Abbey and enclosing photographs. And then, feeling compelled to bring himself into as complete union as possible with his correspondent, he sat, pen in hand, uncertai

s breakfast-table, and he sat reading the letter, to Cath

Glynn to Father

D HALL, B

y 20

ATHER G

at the close of day disappointed, and I wrote a hard, perhaps a cruel, letter; but I'm feeling differently

' and his joy was so great that the rest of the le

it appears that you have recovered from your scruples of conscience, and have forgotten the wrong you did me; but if I know you at all, you are deceiving yourself. You will never forget the wrong you did me. But I shall forget. I am not sure that it has not already passed out of my m

is never satisfied. To-day he has gone to London to seek information about the altars of the early Israelites. It's a wonderful book, but I can

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A GL

haracter, inclining on the whole to think there was, for if she was not serious fundamentally, she would not have been chosen by Mr. Poole for his secretary. 'My little schoolmistress, the secretary of a great scholar! How very extraordinary! But why is it extraordinary? When will she write again?' And every night he wished for the da

elling him that Miss Glynn had written saying she had forgiven him. Her forgiveness had brought great relief; but Miss Glynn said in her

rady to Father

st 1,

ATHER G

e is one of those women who resent all control; and, if I may judge from a letter she wrote to me the other day, she is bent now on educating herself regardless of the conclusions to which her studies may lead her. I shall pray for

ery trul

EL O'G

elf if this piece of advice was Father O'Grady's attempt to get even with him for having told him that he shoul

read it? Did O'Grady fail to understand that there is no more intimate association than that of an author and his secretary. If we are to believe at all in spiritual influences-and who denies them?-can we minimize these? On his way to the writing-table he stopped. Mr. Poole's age-what was it? He imagined him about sixty. 'It is at that age,' he said, 'that men begin to

ers this morning?'

n't had one from Lon

obliged to make a change soon,' he said, turning away so that

ver Gogarty to

NARD,

st 6,

MISS

ould perhaps tell me about the book Mr. Poole is writing. I wonder if this occasion will ever arise, and, if so, if it be near or far-

And so he came forward faintly embarrassed to meet a small pale man, whom he judged to be seventy or thereabouts, coming forward nimbly, bent a little, with a long, thin arm and bony hand extended in a formal languor of welcome.

n a low, winning voice. 'Of course you're surprised

ry glad,' he repeated; and begged his visitor

m to find a conversation that would help them across the first five minutes-'how pleasant it is to see a turf fire ag

here,' Father Oliver return

y continued, 'till I saw the turf blazing and falling into w

, saying: 'I'm glad, Father O'Grady, that you enjoy the f

rady asked, raising

ence he had begun. For he would not have liked to have admitted that he had just begun a letter to Nora Gly

ther O'Grady. Wondering if I mi

certain asperity in Father Oliver's last letter, he thought it prudent to chan

,' Father Oli

and much more agreeable. But I believe you are unacquainted with London, and Margate is doubtless unknown to you. Well, I don't know that you've missed much;' and he began to tell of the month he had spent wandering in the old country, and how full of memories he had found it-all sorts of ideas a

. 'It was very good of you to think of me, to undertake the

to one to do. I liked you from your letters; you're lik

' Father Oliver returned, 'only

man,' Father O'G

her Oliver replied, and there was

a kindness that I did not expect, and one which I certainly did not deserve;' but to speak these words would necessitate an apology for the rudeness he felt he was guilty of in his last letter, and the fact that he knew that Father O'Grady had come to talk to him about Nora increased his nervousness. But their

moved from those the peasants lived in. All the same, there was many a fine scholar among them. Virgil, Ho

imes he took down his Virgil. 'I loo

, classical Latin, easily

, though I often come to words I have never seen or have forgotten the mea

' Father O'Gr

tting by the fire all alone listening to the wind. I said just now that I was thinking of you. I often think of you, Father O'Grady, and envy you your busy parish. If I ever find

of London, I promise y

to thank you,' Father Oliver answered. And Fathe

it is very wonderful. Ah, Landor's "Hellenics" in

an Irish priest. Books travel, and my predecessor, Father Peter, is the last man in the world who would have cared to

y were to say next, Father O'Grady ventured to doubt if Horace would approve of Landor's Latin and of the works written in comparatively modern time

ce garden, F

be persuaded; and they walked to and fro, talking about their different parishes, Father O'Grady asking Father Oliver questions about his school and his church. And when Father O'Grady had contributed a great deal of unnecessary information, he questioned Father O'Grady about his parish, and gained much information regarding the difficulties that a Catholic priest met with in London, till religion became as wearisome as the Latin language. At last it suddenly struck Father Oliver that if he allowed the talk to continue regarding the difficulties of the Catholic priest in Lon

; it was she who told me to plant roses in that corner, and to cover the wall with ramblin

taste in music and in many other thing

regretted my garden?

with my garden;' and feeling that they had at last got into a conve

We shall be able to talk mo

f fire; for it is the last that I shal

n to the fire. Catherine will

ere back in the parlo

air. It was very good of you to

ng a wrong impression, whereas in talk one is present to rectify any mistakes one may drop into. I am thinking now of the last subject dealt with in our

e, Father O'Grady,'

have forgotten already her steadfastness. Nothing that I could have said would have availed, and it seems to me that you were mistaken in asking me to urge Miss Glynn t

a woman going into danger, surely one may warn her. A

dy remarked; 'and one should not try to b

rtainly not be repeated. But since hearing from you I've heard from Miss Glynn, and the remarks sh

characteristic,' Father O'Grady answer

efinite. Do you know anything, Father O'Grady, about this m

some of Mr. Poole's books, and have seen them reviewed in the newspapers; I've heard his opinions

anti-Christian than tha

ave owed their deaths to tortures they have received because they differed regarding some trifling passage in Scripture. There can be no doubt of that, but it is equally true that Christianity has enabled many more millions to live as much from a practical point of vie

reads and writes, and, what is worse, listening to his insidious conversation, t

dy said, 'that a Christian forf

y day a plausible account is being poured into her ears, and her circumstances are such as would tempt her to give a willing ear to Mr. Poole's beliefs that God has not re

of my guilt has never appeared so distinctly to me till now. You have revealed it to me, and I'm thinking now of what account I could give to God were I to die to-morrow. "Thou hast caused a soul to be lost," he would say. "The sins of the flesh are transitory like the flesh, the sins of the fai

mistake you made in co

. You may have been sent to hear me. Who knows? Who can say?' and he dropped on his knees cr

t Father Oliver rose from his knees, and, subdued in body and mind, stood looking through the room, conscious of the green grass showing through his window, lighted by a last ray of the setting sun. It was the wanness of this light that put the thought into his mind that it would soon be time to send round

y, nor does he put any stress upon them from which they cannot extricate themselves. I could cite many instances of men and women whose faith has been strengthened by hostile criticism; the very arguments that have been urged against their faith have forced them to discover

than a sensual influence, and the sins of faith are worse than the sins of the flesh. I never thought of him as a possible seducer. But there may be that dan

her O'Grady said, as if he

n at Tinnick,

Oliver repeated mechanically, almos

sisters

s,

ow it all

f always as a pious lad. On looking into the years gone by, he said that he saw himself more often than not by his bedside rapt in innocent little prayers. And afterwards at school he had been considered a pious lad. He rambled on, telling h

ow Eliza, coming to see the priest in him, gave up her room to him as soon as their cousin the B

, 'made to marry you to so

s aversion for marriage, acquiescing that aversion might be too

ne talking to himself: 'I'm thinking that I was singularly free from all temptations of the sensual life, especially those represented by womankind. I was ordained early, when I was twenty-two, and as soon as I began to hear confessions, the things that surprised me the most were the stories relating to those passionate attachments that men experience for women and women for men-atta

revealed himself, and that perhaps Father O'Grady now knew more about him than he knew himself. But w

for our tea,' Father Oliver sai

glad of a

Tinnick and of the convenience of the branch line of railway. It was a convenience certainly, but it was also an inconvenience, owing to the fact that the trains run from Tinnick sometimes missed the mail train; and this

work in the kitchen preparing his dinner, she would bring it to him as she had done yesterday, he would eat it, he would sit up smoking his pipe for a while, and about eleven o'clock go to his bed. He would lie down in it, and rise and say Mass and see his parishioners. All these things he had done many times before, and he would go on doing them till the day of his death-Until the day of my death,' he repeated, 'never seeing her again, never seei

lf away; and he fell to wondering how it had come into the house. 'Father O'Grady must have left it,' he said, and began to unroll the paper. But while unrolling it he stopped. Half his mind was still away, and he sat for fully ten minute

did he forget to take it away with him? We talked of so many things that

journalist Beechwood Hall stood on its hill, a sign and symbol of the spacious leisure of the eighteenth century and the long tradition that it represented, one that had not even begun to drop into decadence till 1850, a tradition that still existed, despite the fact that democracy was find

o slay Christianity. But Christianity will escape Mr. Poole's pen. It, has outlived many such attacks in the past. We shall see, however, what kind of nib he uses, fine or blunt?' The journalist followed the butler down the long library overlooking green sward to a quiet nook, if he might venture to speak of Mr. Walter Poole's

very soon granted you, of making the acquaintance with the thoughts and ideas which have interested Mr. Walter Poole since boyhood-in fine, which have given him his character. If he seems at first sight to conceal himself from you, it is from shyness, or because he is reluctant to throw open his mind to the casual curious. Why should he

r from this paper,' the priest said, 'to be a man between thirty and forty, not many years older than myself.' The priest's thoughts floated away back into the past, and, returning suddenly with a little start to the present, he con

nswer quickly that if truth lies behind the symbols and traditions, it will be in the interest of the symbols and traditions to inquire out the truth, for blind belief-in other words, faith-is hardly a merit, or if it be a merit it is a merit that cannot be denied to the savages who adore idols. But the civilized man is interested in his history, and the Bi

o the interviewer,' the priest muttered; and he walked up and down h

r he would have to write to Nora about Father O'Grady'

visit, Galilee, for instance, a country that St. Paul never seemed to have visited, which, to say the least, was strange. Whereupon a long talk began abou

one of the reasons he gave for this attribution was as in Matthew, chapter xxvii., verse 7, 'And they took counsel, and bought with them (the thirty pieces of silver) the potter's field, to bury st

Oliver said; and he threw the paper aside angrily. 'And it was I,' he continued, dropping i

liver Gogarty

NARD,

st 10

Miss

ew open the door, saying, "Father O'Grady, your reverence," and the small, frail man whom you know so wel

my responsibility had long ago ended. It was pleasant to hear these things said, and I believed him in a way; but he left by accident or design a copy of Illustrated England on my table. I am sufficiently broad-minded to believe that it is better to be a good Protestant than a bad Catholic; but Mr. Walter Poole is neither Catholic nor Protestant, but an agnostic, which is only a polite word for an atheist. Week in and week out you will hear every argument that may be used against our holy religion. It is true that you have the advantage of being born a Catholic, and were well instructed in your religion; and no doubt you will accept with caution his

t I would like to do something more, and if you happen upon some passages in the books you are reading that seem in contradiction to the doctrines taught by the Catholic Church, I hope you will not conclude that the Church is without an answer. The Church has an answer ready for every single thing that may be said against her doctrines. I am not qualifi

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Glynn to Father

D HALL, B

st 15

I was that you should write the history of the lake and its castles? Why don't you write it and send it to me? I shall be interested in it, though for the moment I have hardly time to think of anything but Jewish history. Within the next few weeks, for certain, the last chapter of Mr. Poole's book will be passed for press, and then w

week. I lie awake thinking of this trip-the p

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A GL

ter-only in her desire of new ideas and new people. She was interested in everything-in his projected book about the raiders faring forth from the island castles, and now in the source of the Christian River; and he began to meditate

ver Gogarty to

NARD,

st 22

MISS

instead a simple question to you: In what faith do you intend to bring up your child? and what will be your answer when your child asks: "Who made me?" Mr

y that I shall understand that you have come to regard our holy religion as a tale fit only for childhood's ears. I write this to you, because I have been suddenly impelled to write, and it seems to me that in writing to you in this simple way I am doing better than if I spent hours in argument. You will not always

storm was over; but the thunder crashed again, the rain began to thicken; there was another flash and another crash, and the pour began again. But all the while the storm was wearing itself out, and he began to wonder if a sullen day, ending in this apocalypse, would pass into a cheerful evening. It seemed as if it would, for some blue was showing between the clouds drifting westward, threatening every moment to blot out the blue, but the clouds continued to brighten at the edges. 'The beginning of the sunset,' the priest said; and he went out on his lawn and stood watching the swallows in the shining air, their dip

erneath it. I was driven back by a flash of lightning, and the thunder was terrifying. A most extraordinary storm lasting for no more than an hour, if that, and then dispersing into a fine evenin

y? Father O'Grady and I will go together if I go to London, and I will write to

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NARD,

mber 4

than one, and are entitled to judge whether your work and the ideas you live among are likely to prove prejudicial to your faith and morals. By a virtue of forgiveness which I admire and thank you for, you write telling me of the literary work you are engaged upon. If I had thought before writing the letter I am now apologizing for, I could not have failed to see that you write to me because you would relieve my

not always pretty or agreeable, that we know-but when one lies between sleeping and waking, life itself is shown in mean aspects, and it is whispered that one has been duped till now; that now, and for the first time, one knows the truth. You remember h

lds me back. I think if I once left Garranard, I should never return to the lake and its island. I hope you haven't forgotten Marban, the hermit who lived at the end of the lake in Church Island. I visited his island yesterday. I should have liked to have rowed myself through the

red in it. As we rowed, seeking a landing-place under the tall trees that grow along the shores, the smell of autumn leaves mingled with the freshness of the water. We rowed up a beautiful little inlet overhung with bushes. The quay is at the end of it, and on getting out of the boat, I asked the boatman to point out to me what remained of Marban's Church. He led me across the island-a large one, the l

ding in it all the little lives that cams to visit him-the birds and the beasts-enumerating them as carefully as Wordsworth would, and loving them as tenderly. Marban! Could one find a more beautiful name for a hermit? Guaire is the brother's name. Marban and King Guaire. Now, imagine the two brothers meeting for a poetic disputation regarding the value of life, and each speaking from his different point of view! True that Guaire's point of view is only just indicated-he listens to his brother, for a hermit's view of life is more his own than a king's. It pleases me to think that the day the twain met to discourse of life and its mission was the counterpart of the day I spent on the island. My day was full of drifting cloud and sunshine, and the lake lay like a mirror refl

enumerates the natural objects with skill. The eternal summer-the same in his day as in ours-he speaks of as "a coloured mantle," and he mentions "th

hafers, the little mu

tle c

ed birds, wood-peckers, fair white birds, herons, sea-gulls, come to visit me." Ther

, hidden in a mane of

an app

ke a h

hazel-nuts, a choice spring and

tame swin

ne, graz

ger's

a heavy host of de

ing at

them fox

eligh

suppose the water was shallower than it is now. But why and how the foxes came to meet the wild swine is a matter of little moment; suffice it that he lived

ive my glor

of our fathe

my death let

be in thy comp

ys. In it is a monk who tells how he and his cat sit together, himself puzzling out some literary or historical

e Danes had not come, Ireland might have anticipated Italy. The poems I have in mind are the first written

had not been for the invasion of the Danes, and the still worse invasion of the English-there is no saying what high place she might not have taken in the history of the world. But I am afraid the halcyon light that paused and passed on in those centuries will never return. We have gotten the after-glow, and the past should incite us; and I am much obliged to you for reminding me that the history of the lake and its castles would make a book. I will try to write this book,

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Glynn to Father

TWE

mber 3

ATHER G

address of the woman who is looking after her is Mrs. Cust, 25, Henry Street, Guildford. Do go to see her and write me a long letter, telling me what you think of her. I am sure a trip to London will do you a great deal of good. Pack up your portmanteau

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A GL

iness, asking himself if she really meant all she said, for why should she wish

ected a moment-'which my experience

t the Sacrament. But she is a good woman, sorra better, and maybe don't need the oil,' which indeed proved to be a fact, for when they reached the cabin they found the doctor there before them, who rising from his chair by the bedside, said, 'The woman is out of danger, if she ever was in any.' 'All the same,' cried the peasant, 'Catherine wouldn't refuse the Sacrament.' 'But if she be in no danger, of what use would the Sacrament be to her?' the doctor asked; the peasant answering, 'Faith, you must have been a Protestant before you were a Catholic to be talking like that,' and Father Oliver hesitated, and left the cabin sorrowed by the unseemliness of the wrangle. He was not, however, many yard

ver Gogarty to

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MISS

ites to me. In reading the letters of the English Nora, I perceive many traces here and there of the Irish Nora, for the Irish Nora was not without a sense of duty, of kindness towards others, but the English Nora seems bent upon a life of pleasure, intellectual and worldly adventures. She delights in foreign travel, and no doubt places feelings above ideas, and regards our instincts as our sovereign guides. Now, when we find ourselves delighting to this extent in the visible, we may be sure that our lives have wandered far away from spiritual things. There is ever a divorce between the world of sense and the world of spirit, and the question of how much love we may expend upon external things will always arise, and will always be a cause of perplexity to those who do not choose to abandon themselves to the general drift of sensual life. This

atigued with the labour of the fields. But as I sit thinking of them, I regret to say that my fear often is that I shall never see any human beings but them; and I dream of long rambles in the French country, resting at towns, reading in libraries. A voice whispers, "You could do very well with a little of her life,

cial; we shouldn't know the deeper life. Duty has its rewards as well as its pain, and the knowledge that

ER GO

the clearer did it seem that it was inspired by Poole. But what could Poole's reason be for wishing him to leave Ireland, to go abroad? It was certain that if Poole were in love with Nora he would do all

herself? The thought brought him to his feet, for he could never forget how deeply he had wronged her-it was through his fault that she had become Mr. Poole's secretary-maybe his mistress. If he had not preached that sermon, she would be teaching the choir in his parish. But, good heavens! what use was there in going over all that again? He walked to the window and stood there watching the still autumn weather-a dull leaden sky, without a ray of light upon the grass, or a wind in the trees-thinking that these gray days depriv

ver Gogarty to

NARD,

pte

ian harp would be mute. There is not wind enough to-day on the hillside to cause the faintest vibration. Yesterday I went for a long walk in the woods, and I can find no words that would convey an idea of the stillness. It is easy to speak of a tomb, but it was more than that. The dead are dead, and somnambulism is more mysterious than death. The season seemed to stand on the edge of a precipice

le like gold, made me think of dancers with sequins in their hair and sleeves. There seemed to be nothing but silence in the wood, silence, and leaves ready to fall. I had not spoken to anyone for a fortnight-I mean I had no conversation with anyone-and my loneliness helped me to perceive the loneliness of the wood, and the absence of birds made me feel it. The lake is never without gulls, but I didn't see one yesterday. "The swallows are gone," I said; "the wild geese will soon be here," and I remembered their doleful

tells stories as long as you will listen to him, and it appears now that his daughter-in-law turned him out of his house-the house he had built himself, and that he had lived in for half a century. This, however, is not the greatest wrong she had done him. He could forgive her this wrong, but he cannot forgive her stealing of his sword. "There never was a Murphy," he said, "who hadn't a sword." Whether this sword is an imagination of Patsy's fading brain, I cannot say; perhaps he had some old sword and lost it. The tale he tells to-day differs wholly from the tale he told yesterday and the tale he will tell to-morrow. He told me once he had been obliged to give up all his savings to his son. I went to interview the son, determined to sift the matter to the bottom, and discovered that Patsy had still one hundred and twenty pounds in the bank. Ten pounds had been taken out for-I nee

u will say, "But what matter? They may not be true in fact, but they are his truth, they are himself, they are his age." His ninety-five years are represented in his confused t

ray quicker now t

still a young man, that in a few years, which would pass like a dream, I should be as frail as Patsy Murphy,

pte

ght before responsibility is incurred I am not ready to say. One's mood changes. A storm gathers, rages for a while, and disperses; but the traces of the storm remain after the storm has passed away. I am thinking now that perhaps, after all, you were sincere when you asked me to leave Garranard and take my holiday in Rome, and the baseness of which for a moment I deemed you capable was the creation of my own soul. I don't mean that my mind, my soul, is always base. At times we are more or less unworthy. Our tempers are part of ourselves? I have been pondering this question lately. Which self is the true self-the peaceful or the choleric? My wretched temper aggravated my disappointme

nd dyed hair, and he was sure that Nora did not dye her hair or paint her face. No, she was not Poole's mistress. It was only his ignorance of life that could have led him to think of anything so absurd.... And then, weary of thinking and debating with himself, he took down a book that was lent some months ago, a monograph on a learned woman, a learned philosophical writer and translator of exegetical works from the German. Like Nora, she came from the middle classes, and, like Nora, she transgressed, how often he did not know, but with another woman's husband certainly. A critical writer and exponent of serious literature. Taste for learned studies did not preclude abstinence

I shall pray for you, and you will repent your sins if you are living in sin. Forgive me the question I am putting to you. I have no right to do so whatever. Whatever right I had over you when you were in my parish has passed from me. I exceeded that right, but that is the old story. Maybe I am repeating my very fault again. It is not unlikely, for what do we do all through our lives but to repeat ourselves? You have forgiven me, and, having forgiven me once, maybe you will forgive me again. However this may be, do not delay writing, for every day will be an agony till I hear from you. At the end of an autumn day, when the dusk is sinking into the room, one lacks courage to live. Rel

incerel

ER GO

ver Gogarty to

NARD,

ber 2

MISS

aid my letter must have seemed exaggerated. One writes out of a mood. The mood passes, but when it is with one, one is the victim of it. And this letter is written to say I have recovered somewhat from my depression of spirits.... I have found consolation in a book, and I

the sayings of all the philosophers, what would it a

naturally desireth to know; but what dot

tter than a proud philosopher who pondereth th

th vile to himself, and taketh n

were not in charity, what would it profit me in th

nowledge, because many distractions

tal side of religion, but your loss is only momentary. You will never find anyone who will understand you better than this book. You are engaged now in the vain pursuit of knowledge, but some

incerel

GOGART

ver Gogarty to

NARD,

mber

MISS

it; the English is better than the English of our modern translations. You must not think that I feel hurt because you did not write to thank me at once for having sent you the book. My reason for writing is merely because I should like to know if it re

incerel

GOGART