was drawn. How is it conceivable, then, that she should be content with
any standard short of perfection? If she were a Society evolved from
below--a merely human Society that is to say--she could never advance
beyond those standards to which in the past her noblest children have
climbed. But since there dwells in her the Supernatural--since Mary was
endowed from on high with a gift to which no human being could ascend,
since the Sun of Justice Himself came down from the heavens to lead a
human life under human terms--how can she ever again be content with
anything short of that height from which these came?

(2) But she is also human, dwelling herself in the midst of humanity,
placed here in the world for the express object of gathering into
herself and of sanctifying by her graces that very world which has
fallen from God. These outcasts and these sinners are the very material
on which she has to work; these waste products of human life, these
marred types and specimens of humanity have no hope at all except in
her.

For, first, she desires if she can--and she has often been
able--actually to raise these, first to sanctity and then to her own
altars; it is for her and her only to _raise the poor from the dunghill
and to set them with the princes_. She sets before the Magdalen and the
thief, then, nothing less but her own standard of perfection.

Yet though in one sense she is satisfied with nothing lower than this,
in another sense she is satisfied with almost infinitely nothing. If she
can but bring the sinner within the very edge of grace; if she can but
draw from the dying murderer one cry of contrition; if she can but turn
his eyes with one look of love to the crucifix, her labours are a
thousand times repaid; for, if she has not brought him to the head of