When I heard Leyton's cry I hurried to the sickroom. The poor, broken-hearted man was yet on his knees. His hands rested in hers, and between them the crucifix. She was dead. Rest and peace had come when her tried soul entered her heavenly home.

In obedience to my promise, no hands but mine dressed her body. Tears fell from my eyes when I placed the white shroud on her. But, dear reader, had you seen the dark marks with which the body of the dead woman was covered, you too would have cried. When I had arranged and tied her rich hair, I cut off a lock of it before I placed the white cap on her head. I knew the husband would prize and hold in honor that last relic of his departed wife. But when I, last of all, folded the white hands over the broken heart, and saw the wounded finger and the small ring, I cried as I had never before cried. So young, so beautiful and so unhappy! But she had made good use of her trials and sufferings, and now had found rest and had met again her little daughter.

I pass over the time we had with poor Leyton. The good priest and myself left nothing undone to console the poor man, but everything was in vain. Until the burial he left the body neither day nor night. I have seen repentance and remorse of conscience in various forms, but never in such a degree as with Leyton. They had to tear him by force from his wife's body when we laid it to its restingplace. She has a plain grave in the new cemetery,

with a stone cross on it. I sometimes go there, for her history is deeply impressed in my memory. Poor Leyton remained with us for some time. He made a general confession, and on the day he had received holy communion, he came to say good-bye to us. He went to America, and there he leads a truly Christian life. Every year a long letter arrives, with money for the church and the humble request to pray for him. Once he sent some rare plants for his wife's grave. I did as he wished, and surely the poor, penitent husband has sent many a sad greeting across the ocean to the beautiful flowers on his wife's grave. What would he not give could he recall the past, to undo his actions, to call back that noble, angelic wife whom his passion and abuse placed in such an early grave. I have heard it said, and believe it, that he never again laughed; and I know that he would rather die than break the oath he swore at her death-bed.

Who can enumerate the wonders accomplished by the gentle patience of Catholic wives? Courage and confidence, ye sorrowful hearts! Believe that an omnipotent, merciful God will reward your sufferings and trials, and victory will be yours and your merit will be great. Bear injustice with patience, repay evil with good, hatred with love, roughness with attention and tenderness. The time will come, sooner or later, when you will conquer and reap the reward for your trials even here on earth. Above all, remember the words of our Lord: "Be faithful to the end, and I shall give ye the crown of life everlasting."

O matter how times may change, and we by force of circumstances are compelled to change with them, there is one sentiment that stands firm and true through all the ages, a bright point of light amid the shifting blackness of earth's severest trials-a mother's love. It matters not that babyhood has long since been left behind, it means no diminution in the protecting tenderness in that mother heart that we have passed the age where physical help is needed to guide our tottering infant feet, dry our childish tears, sympathize with our little sorrows, and encourage us in the struggle of young manhood, we do not change to her. Life's greater and fuller troubles that roll like overwhelming billows upon the struggling man or woman are still to the dear faithful heart the worries of her baby boy. The mother never realizes that the years have changed her little one into a strong, helpful adult. She feels that he needs her, and she it is of all the world that can comfort as no other comforter and counsel as no other adviser. She reads the heart, the world judges the actions. She feels where others may condemn. She, in a word, is "Mother," and what more can be said? The day will come when those tired hands are folded, never more to toil for the child of her heart, when those loving eyes are closed, never more to open in glad surprise at the coming of one most dear, and

the world will go on, but never quite the same to the one who has laid away in the grave that dear one who understood the trials, who smoothed the aching brow, who looked not upon the little mistakes with the cold, cruel search-light of worldly wisdom, and condemned unknowing and unthinking those actions that she could interpret in a far different manner.

Does not the memory of that love stimulate to better deeds and nobler ambitions? Does not the heart cry out in the lonely watches of the night for just one more look at the face long since passed from our sight? and are there not times when even in the midst of the hurry and heat of the day that we sigh for those other times, perhaps before the world smiled favorably upon us, when little economies and grinding toils seemed so hard to bear, but which now appear but the airy trifles of the imagination, for then, indeed, we were blessed, though we realized it not-we had our mother.

The tender binding love of mother and child is the one that lives. There is no diminution; selfishness and sordid considerations have no place in such an affection, and though lovers prove fickle, and friends are false, one can always look to mother for an abiding love, whether in her living, breathing care and affection, or in the sacred memory of her devotion in those days before she passed away for

ever.

VERY period and country has its own methods and manner of missionary practice. In Africa, the missionary must first be a colonist and cultivate the ground, thereby preparing in slow degrees the civilization of the benighted natives. In China, the seat of a culture many thousand years old, there is no necessity for this. There the missionary must, on the contrary, forget his own country and its customs, and adapt himself to the usages obtaining among the natives if he intends to exert influence. This is extremely difficult, the more so at present, because the missionary is surrounded with obstacles.

First of all, the missionary is a stranger, exposed to the hatred and secret persecutions of the mandarins, to the derision of the learned class, and hence also to the scorn of the common people. The European missionary, coming as he does in the name of Christ, is called by them "Jankuize," which means Devil from the West." Simple people designate him by no other name, because they know him by no other and do not understand its meaning. Moreover, the Catholic missionary is poor, and unable in his poverty to make that display to which the Chinese attach so much importance. The missionary comes into a village on his mule or horse, a catechist his sole companion. The mandarin's advent is announced by a flourish of trumpets, and he is followed by a calvalcade of gaudily dressed soldiers; a retinue of servants surrounds the sedan chair in which he is carried. The missionary dwells in a poor, dilapidated hut: the mandarin's abode is, according to Chinese views, a palace, with ante-chambers and halls of state. The Lord of Heaven, preached by the missionary, is adored in a poor little chapel: the Chinese idols are surrounded with barbarous pomp in grand temples. Another adverse circumstance must not be overlooked. Europeans dwelled in the ports for a long time: the Chinese, who are a commercial people, gather there from the interior to transact business, and during their sojourn in those cities they witness the scandalous lives of the Europeans, and conclude that all of them are as wicked as they. Hence the missionary finds it a most difficult task to combat their prejudices.

Let us now accompany the missionary on one of his tours. He came to China ignorant of its language. His first efforts, therefore, are devoted to its acquisition. His perseverance overcomes all

obstacles, and scarcely a year passes before we see him set forth in company with a missionary whose longer residence made him acquainted with the country and its inhabitants, and with a catechist, to begin his labors amongst the neophytes. Together they visit the Christian villages, instruct the catechumens, preach, explain the prayers, etc. As soon as the new missionary is initiated in his duties, the other leaves him to proceed onward, and the former remains to pursue his vocation alone. Once conversant with the language, the missionary's time is well employed. His mission is a large one, extending, perhaps, over the greater portion of a large province. The Christians are scattered far and wide. Sick calls are frequent, and the missionary answers them by day and night. Difficulties occurring between Christians and heathens often require his presence in a distant village. Sometimes he perceives a chance to found a new Christian community, and his zeal will not permit him to neglect it. It usually comes about in this way:

A Christian family, for instance, has relatives in a neighboring village. They visit each other, and in the course of conversation mention is made of the missionary. The heathen relatives are inquisitive, and inquire concerning the Christian religion, its doctrine, duties, etc. Soon the prejudices vanish. The missionary is asked to come, and the result is their conversion. But not always are they actuated by pure motives. Perhaps they had a difficulty with their mandarin, and hope to be screened from justice by the missionary's influence. Or they are actuated by other sinister motives. But even then the missionary sometimes succeeds in establishing a mission: the well-disposed will listen and be converted, whilst the rest remain in the darkness of paganism.

To such places the missionary at first sends a catechist to give the necessary instruction. Adults and children learn the catechism, morning and evening prayers are said in common, and after about two years the neophytes are ready for baptism. Meanwhile those actuated by sinister motives have long ago absented themselves, and the sincere are known. The instructions had been hitherto limited to the men, Chinese custom not permitting the women to attend. Now a female catechist is sent to instruct the latter, and finally they are also admitted to the chapel, that is, into the apartment divided off for them, for they must not appear in public.