tion to Mrs. Moore, she set out for the pastoral residence almost as soon as the school door closed on the little girl whose simple prattle had thus urged her to immediate action.

Timidity she seemed unable to control made her voice and manner strangely hesitant as she inquired for the pastor; the maid was not sure he could be seen, but as the visitor evinced a disposition to enter, "she would see."

It was early, Mrs. Tierney admitted to herself, but if she went away now when could she summon courage for another trial?

O, she thought, if the girl would but smile or even look less stolid, or glance at her instead of over her head, as she chose to do after that first quick scrutiny, which told her that this early caller was poor and timid, so probably a petitioner of some sort, as well as being a stranger.

What could it matter, only that sight or sound suggestive in the least of human sympathy is helpful in such strait as hers, if but considered as an omen of nearing good.

As it was, the waiting moments passed slowly, and the temptation to flight was strong for the overwrought mother.

What if this move were to prove the entering wedge that should shatter the frail edifice of earthly hope, so slowly being rebuilt on the ruins of her past? If the new influence she was about to invoke should wake in her child's heart the feeling of aloofness from mother, that in its slightest form would be indeed the rift within the lute of her hardly earned content?

With all her love for Hugh, and readiness to follow his fortunes for good or ill, she had not, as we have seen, felt during his lifetime the impulse to imitate her Scriptural namesake in voluntary acceptance of his God, in the sense of his Faith, as hers also. But what her husband had not demanded for himself, this spiritual Father might expect for the child she was about to surrender to his charge. So ran the current of her thoughts, still tinged by the "invincible ignorance" of her Puritan upbringing, and try as she would, the current might not be diverted. The pictures on the high walls, the books within reach on the center table, were powerless to interest, and amid the oppressive stillness the moment of reaction from her courageous purpose seemed at hand when a door at the further end of the double parlor unclosed and the pastor entered, accompanied by a man of business apparently, who was demonstrating as they walked, with notebook and pencil. The priest was busy, too-looked the practical energetic man she had heard incidentally he was; the cape of his cassock was thrown shoulderwise with a certain breeziness of effect that accorded with his quick step, the backward set of the wellpoised baretta, and the searching glance which swept the rooms as he entered. At that glance Mrs. Tierney arose her hand seeking the chair beside

her for needed support, as noticing her movement, the pastor motioned his companion to a seat and came forward.

"Did you wish to see me particularly? I am especially occupied just now.'

Alas! for all the comprehensive speeches she had composed to introduce her subject. He was very busy and she would be, as she knew, very tedious. "I wanted to explain to you about-the block collection-I did not contribute yesterday, and the clergyman did not understand

“O, yes, he did. We understand! People should give or say they will not at the time, you know; it is easier than coming here to explain. I really have not leisure for explanations."

And he was gone-a busy man who did not and could not in all fairness be expected to discern at such casual meeting, the real trouble that underlaid her hesitancy. Through the folding doors drawn together as though to prevent further parley, she fancied a "Good Morning" floated to her, and then there was a confusion of sounds, the street and house bells almost in unison, and with a swish of silken skirts, an elderly lady, who had just alighted from a carriage at the door swept into the parlor.

Mrs. Tierney knew her chance of an audience was gone, but she was conscious of wet eyes and trembling lips that would attract attention outside, so she must wait to regain her self-control.

The maid was again in view-expressionless and unsmiling, suggesting all unconsciously the query: were there no smiles for her anywhere? Surely yes! Above the seat she had occupied hung a picture she now faced; familiar to her from its frequent appearance in the windows of the city's art stores. Beneath it was a name, followed by letters expressive of titles and dignities, but she only saw two little words that appealed to her as they had done the night before when spoken by the lips of her childHis Grace-a smiling Archbishop! Only a picture, but somehow everything was not quite so dark now she had noticed it.

If she had but gone, as you or I might have done, into the great church nearby, about the completion and adornment of which that energetic pastor thought so incessantly as to occasionally overlook other sweet possibilities of his busy life, she would have found there a pictured Mary of Bethlehem, who smiled even when "there was no room for her in the inns," because that she knew God had willed it so.

But Clare's mother hastened instead to the humble room where her neglected work awaited her, and thoughts half sad, half bitter, kept her company until school hours closed. Then, if she was unusually silent, Clare had little chance to notice, for the pretty scarf and doilies she had admired the evening before were now finished, and as they were needed at Once she must return them to the owner while her

mother commenced a new task that was especially hurried and important.

The car that passed their street corner ran within a short distance of the customer's home, and Clare was a very careful and discreet messenger upon whose nice manners more than one of Mrs. Tierney's patrons had complimented the mother, so there were no misgivings about the little trip, although the winter evening was fast closing in and a storm of some sort seemed brewing.

In common with most children of the imaginative order Clare enjoyed a rainstorm; to childhood its patter is as nearing feet treading a merry measure, while to age it sounds as the echo of departed footsteps long absent from the earthly ways.

Goodnatured passengers smiled at the trim little figure in hood and waterproof, holding fast a neat package and an umbrella as well, of the dwarfed species in which schoolgirls delight; the conductor remembered without any reminder the destination she had mentioned when entering the car, and even volunteered directions as she descended, and the waiter man at Mrs. Morton's house drew one of the great hall chairs nearer the register, so she might ensconce herself therein while she waited the lady's pleasure.

Then, however, she was apparently forgotten, for it was a long time indeed before Mrs. Morton herself, descending the wide stair, noticed the little. messenger, who, immovable in the shadow of the highbacked chair, might have served to recall the story of "Boy Blue" under his traditional hay stack.

"Ah, this is really too bad," said the lady, goodnaturedly enough. "Mrs Tierney's little girl, is it not? I put down the note and money I meant you to take on my table and forgot to have it given you, and now, thinking you had gone, I was taking it to have it mailed."

She drew a letter from among some she carried and handed it to Clare with an amiable word of praise for her mother's satisfactory work, and a caution to be careful of the envelope and its enclosure.

"You are accustomed to errands, I suppose, and you are really a very patient little girl. Quite sure you know your way?" she asked as the child stood under the hall light, looking rather diminutive and irresponsible.

"O, yes ma'am," Clare answered cheerily, tucking the envelope in an inner pocket mama had designated, and feeling carefully for the carfare she carried in the finger end of her small clumsy mitten. "Mother said to go to the car around the square, not across it, for fear I might lose my way."

"It is safer, although longer," assented Mrs. Morton, "and as you have to pass the corner will you please drop these letters in the box there for me; the servants are all engaged now, so near dinner hour. You know how, of course?""

Clare knew how, and promised to be careful;

Mrs. Morton opened the door herself, and from behind the thick glass saw the child descend the big steps and turn facing the chill rain in the direction. of home. A few moments later she had forgotten the incident, as far as Clare was concerned, while the impression remained of the utter dreariness of the scene, with the driving sleety rain obscuring the twinkle of the street lamps, and the barebranched trees in the square standing out like fence rails, thrown here and there amid a landscape of low-lying clouds. For once, the rain had lost its fascination for Clare; cloak and umbrella were powerless to resist its combination with the chill wind that apparently blew from all points of the compass across and around the level square, and even Mrs. Morton's letters fluttered in her grasp while she strove to save their daintiness from destruction.

A very bedraggled, disheveled little figure it was that leaned against the dripping lamppose at the bleak corner, completely vanquished by a refractory umbrella and the wonderful letter box with its tantalizing legends "Lift Up," "Let Down," meant at best for the ambi-dexterous. The alternative of carrying Mrs. Morton's letters further did not suggest itself, for she had promised to mail them "at the corner," reckoning then without the umbrella which now could not be coaxed to close or stand still beside her while the wind proffered such delightful chance to frolic, and the box that could not. be coaxed to open unless one was able to obey literally its official "Sesame."

If only a policeman, or a passerby, would comeeven then Clare remembered some policemen and some passersby would be worse than useless in this emergency that they need not perceive if they chose to ignore, so she stood, wasting as she thought, the precious moments that must carry so much anxiety to her mother's heart.

One more effort she made, standing tiptoe and unprotected with that unreliable weather guard of hers set beside the post, but, alas! the box lid merely clicked to the touch of her benumbed fingers, and the umbrella, escaping from the slight restraint, veered at its own giddy will across the roadway.

Clare saw no more, for the little tragedy was very real to the experience of eight years, and the hot tears blinded her more effectually than the driving. sleet had done.

An instant later, a tall form was beside hermuch in the story-book fashion, yet this is the tale of an actual happening-she was conscious of a big shield held firmly above her, while a very kind voice reached her from its higher altitude.

"Tell me what I can do for you, little one! Ah, you want to mail these letters," as Clare, hearing, but still unseeing, held the cause of all the torment forth. "Now, that is done, but I am afraid your umbrella is useless, so you shall come under mine while you tell me your name and where you are going." Clare took the rescued umbrella by its drip

ping handle and moved on under the friendly cover proffered her, trying hard to control her babyish sobbing, and steal a glance besides at the owner of the kindly voice. She could make out only that it was masculine, and belonged to someone tall and strong, who lowered his hand very much indeed and left his own shoulders unprotected to save her from the low-beating drift.

Their way led past the massive walls of an immense church, the bulk of which afforded comparative protection, so the lights at its entrance did not flicker, and passing beneath them the little girl ventured to look in the face of her new found friend.

Such a pleasant, kindly face it was! There was acknowledgment in its lines and shadows of many arduous years-perhaps some troubled ones, too, but the sunshine of unforgotten youth was in the gentle smile and interested glance which awaited the little girl's story. It did not take long to tell, for all its childish additions of speculation over Mama's worry, and regrets for the broken umbrella.

"Well, now, little Clare, you shall take mine; it is not very heavy, and I am quite near home. We will see you get your car; and how about carfare?"

It was still safe, as Clare assured her guardian, within the drenched mitten, and "she was not at all afraid now-she could see the corner where the car came in sight, and she did not like the gentleman to get very wet on her account."

But the "gentleman" still walked on, keeping her quite on the sheltered side. From the shadow of a projecting doorway a policeman came in view, apparently hesitating, as well he might, before resuming his tour of the square.

His gaze fell upon Clare and her protector, and at once he straightened and saluted, not perfunctorily, but as though he was honestly glad of the chance meeting, even if it entailed some polite exertion.

"Ah, Officer; Good Evening! This little one has been having a bad weather experience. Would it be out of your way to see her on the

street

car, and give the conductor some directions about her?" The tall gentleman slipped a coin into the officer's hand, still mindful, apparently, of the difficulty with the rain-soaked mitten, and stooped to make Clare's grasp firm on the umbrella he gave to her hold.

"There is not really any need to return this," he said, "Goodnight, and God guard you! Thank you, Officer!-Goodnight!" as the official took his position of guardian by Clare's side.

"O, your Grace is more than welcome, and I hope you will excuse my saying you should get right in from this storm. There would not be many found could fill your place," added Officer Wilson, sotto voce, while Clare, for all her hurry, turned to watch the tall figure ascend some nearby steps and disappear.

"What did you say to him?" she asked the policeman, much more timidly than she had spoken to

the protector, whose tones had invited confidence. "Well, we always say 'Yes' to him, you may be sure," returned Officer Wilson, good humoredly. "O, what did I call him? Your Grace! I'm not a Catholic," apologetically, "but my wife is, and she calls him that."

"Then, he is the Bishop?"-Clare's voice trembled now with wonder.

"He is the Catholic Archbishop, child. He did not know you, then? But that does not matter to him, he'd look out for all the kids in the city if he could. Never sees any harm in 'em, no matter what they do."

"Of course they would be all good to him, he is so good to everybody," said Clare, as though submitting a new solution for the old difficulty of juvenile management, whereat the officer whistled dubiously but proceeded to carry out to the letter His Grace's instructions, thanks to which Clare soon found herself in the snug little home, so brimful of her wonderful adventure that for once she failed to sympathize fully with Mama's worry before the tale was told. And then it was Mrs. Tierney's turn; the burdened heart, to which that morning's disappointment had been as the overweighting straw, must find ease if only in a child's confidence, so Clare heard for the first time the story of her baptism, and why she had never been sent to Sabbath-school, but learned instead at her mother's knee the few simple prayers she knew.

She heard of the Aunt, in memory of whose dear vocation she was named; of her father's silence regarding his wishes for her religious training, in such strange contradiction to his lifelong fidelity to his own Creed, and her childish wisdom suggested the solution of mother's difficulty.

"Let us go together to see His Grace, Mama, dear. I know he will tell you just what to do. Anyway, I meant to ask you to thank him." And once again "a child led." Even while the mother hesitated, remembering that recent failure of good intentions, not included in her narrative, the daughter urged and pleaded, and her insistence won.

Mother and child were among the number of those who, a few days later, sought admittance for His Grace's hour of audience. Once again Ruth Tierney felt a return of the timidity which had made her so strangely awkward at the interview with the priest that doubting dread of clerical Catholicity that was the vestige of her Puritan birthright. But now the little child was leading, anxious to see again the kind face and listen to the beautiful voice whose "God Guard You," still rang in her ears.

The great door of the Archbishop's house stood slightly ajar, opening gently to the touch of an unseen hand at the sound of their nearing footsteps, and the owner of the hand was no other than His Grace, himself, who was saying good-bye to a group of clergymen, and looking more imposing than even Clare remembered him in the picturesque violet

cassock and golden cross which marked his rank. Mrs. Tierney passed with a half frightened glance of recognition for the original of her "smiling" picture, but Clare hesitated-and was found. Without an instant's doubt or scrutiny the Archbishop remembered the little one he had befriended. "I did not even need the umbrella as a reminder," he said, in the pleasant way that won young hearts, and while Clare drew gladly nearer he comprehended at once the mother's hesitancy, reading much of her story in her troubled face. “Come with me and tell me something more about my 'babe of the wood,' or rather of the square." The door of his sanctum opened for them, and when Mrs. Tierney emerged therefrom the burden had surely fallen from the tired heart, learning now the meaning of the sweet command: "Rest on Me; I am the Vine."

So little Clare came speedily and easily to the heritage bequeathed of the Catholic father, and soon to be shared by the patient, loving mother.

Not alone their spiritual welfare, but temporal as well, became His Grace's care, for, visiting soon afterward the New England city of Mrs. Tierney's birth, he told her story to a brother prelate, who had, through some business transaction made the acquaintance of her father, now counted among the city's wealthiest men.

Ruth Tierney never quite understood how the kind conspirators overcame the old man's bitterness. Perhaps the widow of the Irish Catholic was not

INSECTS FASTER THAN BIRDS.

A common house fly is not very rapid in its flight, but its wings make 800 beats a second and send it through the air twenty-five feet, under ordinary circumstances, in that space of time.

When the insect is alarmed, however, it has been found that it increases its rate of speed to over 150 feet per second. If it could continue such rapid flight for a mile in a straight line it would cover that distance in about thirty-five seconds.

It is not an uncommon thing when traveling by rail in the summer time to see a bee or wasp keeping up with the train and trying to get in at one of the windows. A swallow is considered one of the swiftest flying birds, and it was thought until a short time ago that no insect could escape it.

A naturalist tells of an exciting chase he saw between a swallow and a dragon fly, which is among the swiftest of insects.

The insect flew with incredible speed and wheeled and dodged with such ease that the swallow, despite its utmost efforts, completely failed to overtake and capture it.

so objectionable as the wife; perhaps being the protege of a great and learned Archbishop carried with it a certain distinction irrespective of Creed. However that might be, the wanderer was welcomed to her childhood's home and the arms of the feeble mother, which had long ached to enfold her, while the old father's heart soon surrendered to the artless charm of Hugh Tierney's child.

Were it not for the memory of that grave in faraway Denver, which her father had consented she should visit in the near future, Ruth's daily ways would indeed be ways of pleasantness as of peace, but she had learned in meekness of heart the lessons of her new Faith, and understood now that always there must be the shadow of the Cross in heart or home, else were both set afar from Nazareth and Calvary.

For Clare, there were long years of convent tutelage the higher education in its highest formcoveted for her by her mother in the hopeless past, and most satisfactory were the sisters' report of her progress.

On one little point, hardly doctrinal, however, she declared her intention of retaining first impressions.

"Of course, His Grace, as a title, means most gracious," she would say, and then in support of her pet theory: "Have I not known 'His Gracious Grace?'"

MARGARET M. HALVEY.

NATIONAL GREETINGS.

"How can you?" That's Swedish. "How do you are?" That's Dutch. "How do you stand?" That's Italian. "Go with God, senor." That's Spanish. "How do you live on?" That's Russian. "How do you perspire?" That's Egyptian. "How do you have yourself?" That's Polish. "Thank God, how are you?" That's Arabian. "May thy shadow never grow less." That's Persian.

"How do you carry yourself?" That's French. "How do you do?" That's English and Ameri

can.

"Be under the guard of God." That's Ottoman. "How is your stomach? Have you eaten your rice?" That's Chinese.

Copy of a notice on the beach at a fashionable French watering place: "In the case of ladies in danger of drowning, they should be seized by the clothing, and not by the hair, which generally comes off."