something raw; but I know that you were, even as a Catholic, higher
than you are now. Doesn't that make it hard to pay?"

"To many it might appear that it would make things harder; but it
doesn't. You have to be inside in order to understand it. The Church
takes you, smiling. She gives to you generously, and then, with a
smile, she breaks you; and, hating to be broken, you break, knowing
that it is best for you. She pets you, and then she whips you; and the
whips sting, but they leave no mark on the soul, except a good mark,
_if you have learned_. But pardon me, here's a parishioner--" A
woman, old and bent, was coming up the steps. "Come on, Mrs. O'Leary.
How is the good man?"

The priest arose to meet the woman, whose sad face aroused in Mark a
keen thrill of sympathy.

"He's gone, Father," she said, "gone this minute. I thank God he had
you with him this morning, and went right. It came awful sudden."

"God rest him. I'm sorry--"

"Don't be sorry, Father," she answered, as he opened the door to let
her go into the house ahead of him. "Sure, God was good to me, and to
John and to the childer. Sure, I had him for thirty year, and he died
right. I'm happy to do God's will."

She passed into the house. The priest looked over to where Mark was
standing hat in hand.

"Don't go, Mr. Griffin, unless you really have to. I'll be away only a