deal of it."

It was Sunday evening. Harry was asleep in his room. The baby, sung
to her sweet slumbers pressed against her mother's heart, had been
lain down at last in her little cradle. Jennie, her evening work
finished, had come down into the library and was sitting on the
lounge beside me.

"I was not so fortunate," said I. "Blessed are those who having ears
hear not--sometimes. I listened, and took the other side. My church
was converted into a court-room, I into an advocate. If I believed
Mr. Work's doctrine was sound Protestantism I should turn Roman
Catholic. Its teaching is the warmer, cheerier, more helpful of the
two."

Then I took up the open book that lay on my library table and read
from Father Hyacinthe's discourses the following paragraph--from an
address delivered on the first communion of a converted Protestant
to the Roman Catholic Church:

"Where (in Protestantism) is that real Presence which flows from the
sacrament as from a hidden spring, like a river of peace, upon the
true Catholic, all the day long, gladdening and fertilizing all his
life? This Immanuel--God with us--awaited you in our Church, and in
that sacrament which so powerfully attracted you, even when you but
half believed it. In your own worship, as in the ancient synagogue,
you found naught but types and shadows; they spoke to you of
reality, but did not contain it; they awakened your thirst, but did
not quench it; weak and empty rudiments which have no longer the
right to rest, since the veil of the temple has been rent asunder