allegiance of over three hundred million people. Without her,
Christianity would be merely pitiful. She alone stands firm on her
foundation. She alone has something really definite to offer. She has
the achievements of twenty centuries by which to judge her. She has
borne, during all those centuries, the hatred of the world; but to-day
she is loved, too--loved better than anything else on earth. She has
hugged the worst of her children to her breast, has borne their shame
that she might save them, because she is a mother; yet she has saints
to show by the thousands. She has never been afraid to speak--always
has spoken; but the ages have not trapped her. She is the biggest,
most wonderful, most mysterious, most awful thing on earth; and yet, as
you say, those who study religion ignore her. I couldn't, and I have
been through the mill."

Mark shifted a little uneasily. "I can't ignore her," he said, "but I
am just a little bit afraid of her."

"Ah, yes." The priest caught his pipe by the bowl and used the stem to
emphasize his words. "I felt that way, too. I like you, Mr. Griffin,
and so I am going to ask you not to mind if I tell you something that I
have never told anyone before. I was afraid of her. I hated her. I
struggled, and almost cursed her. She was too logical. She was
leading me where I did not want to go. But when I came she put her
arms around me; and when I looked at her, she smiled. I came in spite
of many things; and now, Mr. Griffin, I pay. I am alone, and I pay
always. Yet I am glad to pay. I am glad to pay--even here--in
Sihasset."

Mark was moved in spite of himself. "I wonder," he said softly, "if
you are glad, Monsignore, to pay so much? Pardon me if I touch upon