birth. He was a man, however, out of whose life religion had slipped.

During his wife's lifetime, and while he lived on his little farm in
the Pyrenees, he had done as his neighbors did, gone to confession,
and professed himself a good Catholic; but when trouble came to him,
and he found his home in the bleaker land of England, there was found
to be no heart in his worship. He was an amiable, kind-hearted man,
but he forgot the religious part of life. He went neither to church
nor chapel, and he brought up his children like himself, practically
little heathens. Cecile, therefore, at ten years old was more
ignorant than it would be possible to find a respectable English
child. God, and heaven, and the blessed hope of a future life were
things practically unknown to her.

What fragmentary ideas she had gleaned in her wanderings about the
great city with her little brother were vague and unformed. But even
Cecile, thinking now of her father's deathbed, remembered words which
she had little thought of at the time.

Just before he breathed his last, he had raised two feeble hands,
and placed one on her head, and one on Maurice's, and said in a
faltering, failing voice:

"If the blessed and adorable Jesus be God, may He guide you, my
children."

These were his last words, and Cecile, lying on her little bed
to-night, remembered them vividly.

Who was this Jesus who was so loving, and who was so willing to