The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1885-08-29 00:00:00

OR,
A SECRET FOR, YEARS

CHAPTER VIII.
IfISS WACE'S DIARY.

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It
'4,4t
4tts C'ziarne to disgrace papa so! What on
e (brie? How does the governor bear
7`Yri

,Arecious little," answered Cle, under
.her
1. 1,0)10,11 34 t know what he meal% to,Ato at au. "c.Aer cl You think, eh?"
throwing down
floor; cap and.,
ilotti, *in, rind Ross,
L'i4 Vt ..".1 rt solemn bang on the "if_.. A
."
thlips:?(lller have
Lleard this piece of news! It will fret Rap!!
given my best long-eared doe
illellow or other he always 35,eems sn almoul

• I

March 25th.—The weather is wild and stormy. A
'West wind and showers of rain swell the spring buds;
but within doors all is very dreary and winter-like. I
Sit at the window and watch the rain-drops chase each
' ether swiftly down the glass, and listen to the sobbing
Of the wind among the larches, and the solemneswing
4of the rooks, busy over their nest-building in the elm-
avenue. The green sward of the park looks sodden
and heavy with rain, the lake has overflowed its
' banks, and the fishing-punt has broken from its moor-
ings, and is lodging quietly among some trees in the
deluged island. Down in the hollow I can see the

•
grey stone church, with its wall of cypress-trees and
gleaming white stones between. What peace is there
in that quiet hollow! Redfern and its church-yard
Stand hand in hand. Who would not willingly pass
'rom the one to the other?
Ross sat with me some time to-night. He says his
father's temper is improving, he thinks. Our con-
versation was chiefly about Maxall, whose return to
College took place yesterday. It seems he informed
Ross he was greatly in debt there, and has been
begging money of the young heir, just to go on
With for the present. I asked what his means were
--whether he had any property. The boy thought
11(4 ; he was entirely dependent on his father's
bounty.
"And papa grudges him nothing. He'll go and pay
iIIS debts for him without a word, I know, and just
'as good as tell him that, if he chooses, he can go
and do it again.
"Max says he means to mgrry a rich wife. I pity
the one that gets the spiteful little hound."
26th.—I saw Mr. I. to-day. He does not look so
111 as I 'expected. His iron frame has been roughly
shaken, but it has borne the shock well. He came
the housekeeper's room, where I was engaged
With the monthly accounts Parkins had just brought
tle. I did not look up, for I thought it was Ross, and
not until he held out his hand did I know who stood
between me and the light, casting such a gigantic
"shadow upon the paper. I expressed myself happy
to see him down-stairs again.
"Not as happy, I'll swear, as I am to see you, Miss
Wace ; I am very glad to see you again."
Thank you, sir."
"I am afraid you knocked yourself up by looking
Atter me when I was insensible to your great care and
kindness."
• "No, indeed," I said; "it was no such thing. My
• Indisposition was merely an attack of nervousness.
I was subject to it." For the world I would
'hot that he should overwhelm me with his grati-
„ I did well to snub him in this fashion. He became
(laughty in a second.
'I trust you are quite recovered by this time ?"
"Perfectly, sir, thank you."
"Miss Wace, you have not forgiven me yet, I can
lee—I mean the brutal infliction of that scar on your
'cheek."

I begged him not to allude to the matter again, as
4 had long since forgotten it.
" You have not; as long as you live you will re-
laember it."
I thought it useless to protest, therefore said
Oothina.'. He walked about the room some few
,teiontes, and then took himself out through the glass
moors into the garden, where I earnestly wished he
170uld remain. But lie did not. Scarcely had I set
Itiltyself to work once more, on a very intricate sum,
"an in he came, with a tiny bunch of the first spring
ilevvers in his hand —purple and white crocuses,
c.et:.°virdrops, and hepaticas. He asked me to tie them
,gether with a piece of silk, as lie could not accom-
Posh that feat with one hand.
41 shall drive over to the Grange, and show myself
the Draysons ; they have been very kind in inquir-
zs„
11/44:b after me while I was knocked up. By-the-bye,
Wace, poor Smith's old mother is a weekly
f:risioner, remember; see that she has all she wants
~.the way of comforts."
t..,41r• Ingestre has a kind heart, I can tell you. No
•04e who comes to his house, and asks for food, money,
%clothing, is ever turned away.
had tied the flowers up, and given them to
I gathered them for you," he said; "and if you
Zn't choose to accept them, toss them out of the
did not throw them out of the window, but laid
107111 down beside my desk, hoping that he would
(The self-control I am forced to exert on these
iLeasions is most painful to me, especially when
11, Bee anything like unnecessary deference in his
taablaner.) He did not go, but sat down at my
8e le, tossed over the bills, and commenced a dis-
kr,tation on his domestic troubles before I entered
house.
It seems like a paradise of peace and quiet since
Iluotl have been here," he said. "I am never pestered
With the rows those infernal servants were al-
-4143's kicking up—l sit down to a dinner fit to eat
to ask a friend to share—a room to go into that
t7eol always covered up in dust and holland bags. I
hater meet a servant wench on the stairs (a thing I
e) Ross looks jolly and contented, and Cle keeps
tof the stables, and has left off slang. In fact, Miss
Oce, Redfern is now as it has never been before.
tip have worked a miracle, I believe. How deeply
ho'lged to you I am, indeed, I can never say: and I
and trust you will not be offended at my feeble
„-,:tvours to express my gratitude."
nt would rather, sir, you neither praised nor
tlo !Ike'd me for simply doing my duty. Allow me to
I pray, without notice or remark."
tl)atlncao nnot do that. No by heaven, I cannot do
te• If that scar had never been branded on
pest face, perhaps my feelings would never have
.._ered you. It is a lasting reproach upon me, and
Wei:ear to you that mark is scored deeper in my
heart than on your cheek. What a brute—what a
I must have been that night to half-kill my
,log child and lash a woman! Miss Wace—you
totit to plunder me right and left—you ought to
to a,and cheat, and scout and scorn me! You ought
tkel."llse me to my face, and slander me behind my
tilo'• Instead of this, you are civil to me "—[barely,
1%11.11414 li—" when I am sick and a lunatic, charit-
; tend me. Then fall ill yourself, complain to
,I.iile-•.e;bbut still neglect to do nothing that can serve
'l°3' Jove! I wish you would abuse me, it would
to,,:zile relief, indeed it would, to feel that I was
/ Ivhed by you."
kad7.egged him not to allude to this subject again. I
Atie°rgotten and forgiven it, that was sufficient.
I kii.lOore than ever I hoped that he would go; for
ftst,' so ill and weak. He seemed in such savage
felt 5t I dared not lift my eyes to his fierce orbs; I
it 11-1 on me. •
11
41101,..'5s Wace, a sick bed is the place for a man to
(:), -
his misdeeds, how he has lived, how he has
life, how he dares not face death with all his
sticking like a leprosy about him. That is the
for thought; it will come—you can't drown it
,1141041" ink you cannot lull it with sleep, you cannot
"44eer it with laughter and talk. No; if you
44t 4,,11 to have a skeleton in your closet he will walk
14141 4,:)''tzi grin at you then! Miss Wace, I thank God I
die a fortnight ago, for I am not a good man,
ntto 3' sins are heavy enough to drag me to the
'lli 111 of the bottomless pit Don't look so sred • I
)404, e. ca
eoosc.' going to confess them to you. Heavy on my
hey leoce they are, and heavy they will remain; for
kipeeni not of the order which admits confession,
I 1.113" to a woman."
rsed my hand deprecatingly.
hitlngestre, as a stranger to you and your affairs,
3, this conversation most unnecessary."
torr!anger as you are, I wish to justify myself in
6,c.'Yess.”
An
in
t,lcle 3' eyes, sir, you need neither justification nor
o?ination."
the, o, that means you are perfectly indifferent about
V'atter. madam, lam determined not to lose my
but upon my word you do try it. I humbly
etidos". forgiveness—you will not cordially grant it;
'Zj,eQtrcm-r to offer you my thanks—you heartily
titter,
,%'aving anything to do with them; I try to
)ohroy%°.to: bad thoughts of me by pleading the fact
` -mg a black sheep from my youth up—and
ttN rt) loe plainly I have been wasting my apology
eolle3- breath! You are civil! I cannot keep my
eve 1.1.3 over it! I shall swear! Give me those
again, please." Ile snatched them from my
tile-"ltaPed them under his feet, and marched out
Oorn in a fury.
1,44,Q15r ! lam far from happy here. I thought—l
tti'4 /2„ a every feeling in my heart was dead towards
ti:1)1e: ; but is it so? Indeed no, since his anger or
tl,stli 414:are can move me, as it does, to feelings of
‘ta o,,l'ense grief. When he was gone, I laid my head
4 ilyy desk and wept most bitterly.
ttf
(lt% .e'llained in a very sullen mood .the whole day
k\l,ktia"l.ld not speak or look at me; and when
hk'e goo'ng round my neck to give me her very
he,ll night, he pulled her away by the hair
etand gave her a box on the ears for "slob. ctr
con „e
i•--This morning Maxall returned home
tre• Something disgraceful has occurred, I
ils;Di,e Went up to his room directly he arrived,
arfaordian Was with him some time. Domingo
,11Rast,,r, and came out again howling miserably;
4,A whe,l:!e had beaten him. I cannot help noticing
tii !,eti ver Maxall done wrong, this black is im-
'llll ii tlt, ck Be
NThe me way or the other. Ross was horror-
\,:tr),o h 1„. Cle rushed from my side to convey the
tc"o4,on his return from school.
t mean to say Max is plucked? Can't
Neltm
\sk„out, Ross; kicked out. That was what
cried Cle, rubbing her hands with

about Maxall and his getting on in life, and all that,
and he don't rave out at him as he does at you and
me, Cle. I wish he would; I rate to see him so
quiet when Maxall does wrong; because I am certain
it is awful pain to him to keep his temper at such
times, and I believe that's the reason Maxall gets so
audacious. What does Miss Wace say about it 7 What
has he done ?" he inquired of me.
I had no information to give him on the subject,
and just as he was on the point of discussing it more
fully, the library bell rang, and Parkins came to me
with a message from his master. Would Ido him the
honour of a short interview?
I found him walking up and down the room in
an ominous manner. To my surprise, Maxall was
very comfortably extended on the sofa, smoking a
cigar. _ _

-"
Miss Wace, be kind enough to seat iourself, and
honour me with your undivided attention for the next
ten minutes or so," said Mr. 1., in the king-like air he
assumes at times, and waving his hand to a chair in
front of him.
When Mr. Ingestre puts on the purple I don the
ragged coat of humility, and his imperial garment is
soon cast aside then. This was the case at present;
for no sooner had I taken the seat in obedient and
respectful silence, than he cried out—
"Miss Wace, look at that boy!" bitterly, pathe-
tically—anything but imperilously.
Maxall burst into a laugh, and stared me in the
face.
"The lady knows me well enough by this time, I
fancy; if she looks, she will only see me taking my
ease and a jolly Havanah. You did not grow tobacco
in Jamaica, did you, Mr. Ing,estre?" turning with
supreme insolence to his guardian.
"No, Maxall ; but I reared you there."
"So Domingo says. I can just remember the
voyage home, but no more."
"If Domingo don't look out, I'll cut his tongue
off."

"What a pity you did not do that before I was
born! But we are keeping this lady all expectation.
Had you better not open the subject of your conversa-
tion with her at once?"
"The subject of my conversation is you, sir, and I
will open it at once. Miss Wace, that boy of eighteen
over there, whose name is Maxall Maxall, whose father
was well known and deafly loved by me, was left an
orphan before he could articulate his name. I became
his self-constituted guardian, brought him to England
with me, and have given to him the same in every-
thing that I have given to my own. I have fed,
clothed, and educated him. I have never grudged
anything I could bestow upon him, and ono of my
greatest cares was to secure him a prosperous career
in life—one suitable to his birth as a gentleman, and
to his Own tastes. At sixteen he selected the army;
I he was plucked at the first go. Disgusted, he would
study for a doctor; six months sufficed—he was not
meant for a surgeon. Then it was the bar; he went
to college, changed his mind, and determined to be a
clergyman. To-day he returns to Redfern with such
a stigma on his character, that he dare not for his life
attempt to take holy orders, nor enter Cambridge
again. Now, Miss Wace, I have a profound venera-
tion for your opinion: wlrt am Itodo ?' He folded
his arms, and looked at me with a face of utter
despair.
Before I could reply Maxall threw away his cigar
and opened his lips.
"If you have such profound veneration for Miss
Wace's opinion, Mr. Ingestre, I am quite sure that
lady has an equal regard far justice. You will please
to hear my version of this matter, madam, before you
condemn me on my guardian's authority; that is but
fair, I presume ?"
"Have your say; only for Heaven's sake be
quick."
"Thank you, I will take my time. Not to begin at
the beginning, Miss Wace, the reason why I did not
enter the army was not, as Mr. Ingestre informs you,
because I was plucked at my first examination, but
because I had foresight and prudence enough to see
that my means would not be adequate to support me
in a crack regiment in the same style as my brother
officers ; therefore, I gave up the soldier, and tried
the doctor. My nerves are exceedingly sensitive; I
fainted at the first operation I witnessed."
Mr. Ingestre ground his teeth.
"I aspired to the bar; my mind was weakened by
previous study, and there seemed little chance of a
brief. I selected the Church, and would have been a
bishop in time; but am now the victim of an abomin-
able plot, concocted by some enemies of mine at
college, and, though perfectly innocent in my own
eyes, am blackened enough in those of others. I
acknowledge that I have expensive tastes, and find it
necessary to indulge them. I am not fit for work,
nor do I choose to toil. Mr. Ingestre, I ought to have
been your son and heir, and the great six-foot Ross
the one to labour for his bread as you would makeme
do."

I was almost fain to admire the daring bravery of
this small sallow boy—the imp taunting the giant.
But one glance at the other told me the meanness of
such seeming courage. The giant was chained—the
pigmy knew it, and tormented the bound monster in
safety to himself, and with a confidence that wore the
aspect of bravery.
George Ingestre only looked at the speaker. I have
seen a lion wear the same wild vindictive, and yet
mournful expression, when tramping to and ire in its
den, unable to rend to pieces the keeper who mali-
ciously withheld its food. I thought it time to put
my word in.
"Since it is necessary for you to choose a profes-
sion, consequently a livelihood," I said," the choice
will scarcely be assisted by envying those whose
fortunes has placed them above doing so. You speak
of toil as though you anticipated manual labour; that
is hardly consistent with the views your guardian has
for you. The field of labour open to you is to be
worked by the aid of intellect, perseverance, and
painstaking. You are not without talents—work
them for a good purpose. Make a market of your
brains, toil with your head-piece, and make a fortune
before you talk of enjoying one."
"Thank you; do you mean me to turn author and
write a play? I will, and call it the Guardian's
Wardship."
"I mean no such thing. You could not write a
play, nor anything else; but you could be a sharp,
far-sighted, and calculating man of business. Trade
would suit you admirably; it offers to the evil-dis-
posed a free scope for much that dares not appear on
the surface. You can, if you please, steal and lie, and
dupe, and grow rich in trade, Mr. Maxall. I recom-
mend it to your consideration."
I had no mercy on him. His abominable insolence
required chastisement, and I think the suffering rage
of George Ingestre had roused me to inflict it. Maxall
eyed me keenly; he is never indignant; and if pos-
sessing any temper, has wonderful control over it.
He merely thanked me for my advice, and lighted a
second cigar.
"Yes, Miss Waco is right; you shall have a trade,"
sighed his guardian, heavily. "Trade is not a gen-
tleman's calling—for no gentleman can bear to be
brought into contact with the many tricksters infesting
it. I don't like it; nor would I have chosen it for you;
but there is nothing else left now."
"You are quite right, Mr. Ingestre; trade is not fit
for a gentleman, therefore it is not fit for me. I
decline being a tailor or a greengrocer; I will be a
gentleman, and live like one --and at your expense,
Mr. Ingestre, too "—and the youth puffed away at
his cigar with the coolest indifference to what answer
this might provoke.
Ingestre rose from his chair, seized it with one hand

and flung it against a pier-glass opposite. There was
a frightful crash: the chair was broken, the glass
masked. He drew a long breath, and seemed much
relieved .
" Bravo !" cried Maxall, showing his white teeth.
"how scared the poor lady looks! but then you
like to frighten women. Instance poor Cle and the
horsewhip."
" Leave the room, Mr. 141axall," thundered his

guardian.
"Don't look so like a demon, sir, when you find it
necessary to address me," retorted the boy.
"Miss Waco, I took a vow seventeen years ago with
regard to this boy. I have kept it, but for mercy's
sake take him out of my sight now, or I must break
it." He looked towards me imploringly.
How could I behold such intense suffering without
pity? I told Maxall to go instantly, or I would take
him in my arms and lift him out. I fancy he rather
feared this was not a mere threat. He rose and made
for the door, with a smile and a bow.
- -

"11l spare you that unlady-like labour. Mr.
Ingestre, you will make an apology for this bye-and.
e; I am not certain whether I shall accept it."
He went out, shutting the door carefully. I, re-
membering his propensity to kneel down on the out-
side, raised my voice slightly, in order that he might
not lose my few words of advice to his guardian. I
-..,mmended a horsewhipping and confinement to his
room.
Lie is not a man; he is a vicious and insolent boy;
treat him as such, and give him an ignominous
punishment."
"I'll not raise my hand or my voice against him;
my hand would fall and my voice be dumb. I can-
not do it, indeed I cannot. Do you remember, Miss
Wace, how the Scotch James worea belt of iron next
his flesh, and added link upon link as he felt his
sin weigh heavier on his conscience? That boy is my
iron belt, Miss Wace. I wear, I suffer, and will not
complain. I've a savage comfort, too, in the pain it
inflicts. I never stifle his insolence. If he were to
strike me, I should not return the blow. At times,
when I feel certain that he hates me, I feel glad.
Queer, isn' it ?"
I thought so, but of course said nothing.
"Have you any definite plan for his future?" I
asked.
"None at all. You must think for me; you must
tell me what is best to be done. He must be
a rich man, and shall, if I can put hifn in the way
of becoming so. If not, he must share Ross's
fortune."
"Will such a proceeding be just to your own, Mr.
Ingestre ?" I was forced to exclaim, for my surprise
was so great at these despairing words.
"God knows! But Maxall shall not starve while
Ross has plenty. My noble boy! Look, Miss Waco
there, down the slope—there he goes ! riding his horse
like a young Alexander! My bonnie lad! Did you
ever see anything so noble and so handsome? so full
of life, and health, and beauty, as yon creaturet
bounding along on his black mare, Death?"
Heaven only knows what made me shudder then,
but I did; somethina curled the blood in my veins

It must surely have been the sudden contrast between
his heart-burning tenderness of tone and the solemn
echo of the word which closed it.

"Is he not a worthy heir of Redfern and the old
manor lands, Miss Waco? and a true-bred Ingestre,
every inch of him? Am I proud of my boy without
cause? Ay, or no?"
My reply pleased him. Indeed, I had no other
feeling but that of heartfelt admiration for the hand.
some, well grown heir. Yet I thought bitterly of
another, to whom this man stood in relation of
father—of another beautiful son, whom he idolised
with all and more than the passion which he. bestow
on this one—of that poor little grave beyond the sea
My heart was sorely moved by this remembrance.
and I stole away.
Wl= will my task be done? When may I leave
this house and him? When may I encase my heart,
once more in the stony glen which is fast breaking
away from it.
This afternoon I went alone in the village to post
a letter (for I never put mine into the bag), and when
at the churchyard, which I told you was at the lower
end of the park, I fancied I heard the post horn
sounding as the mail-cart entered the village.

I turned back to look at the sun-dial, for the sun
shone brilliantly, and I had not my watch with me.
The shadow lay midway between three and four. I
was in good time, and turned to retrace my steps.
As I did so, some one rose from among the grave-
stones, and hurried out before me: a woman, dusty
and weary-looking, who had evidently found a rest-
ing-place in the quiet little graveyard. As she went.
out of the gate she looked round at me, with a wander-
ing, listless eye, and then hastened on, not through the
village, but across the park.
She was well dressed, had large, vacant blue eyes,
a white face, very red lips, and a quantity of fair,
beautifully-coloured hair untidily hanging from be-
neath her bonnet. I had seen this woman before. It
was Mrs. Faunce.

My business in the village was soon done, and I
returned to the house, dreading some new and terrible
scene would greet me on entering it. I lingered on
my way. I watched the gambols of the lambs, the
quiet flight of the rooks. I listened to, without heed-
ing, the mellow song of a blackbird perched on a
blossoming thorn close to me—anything which could
defer the steps I made towards that house.
The windows were vermilion-coloured with the
reflection of the setting sun; the dark pines, dotted in
groups over the park, were quivering, with the red
light outlining every hoary trunk and stem; while
the green sward beneath was golden in the blaze of
colour cast over it. Redfern looked strangely still
and beautiful then. Never before had I fully appre-
ciated the charm of its solitude, the magnificence of
its timber, the picturesqueness of its situation, and
the quaint old beauty of the red-brick pile, covered in
places with trailing ivy, in others with wilder creepers,
and in some portions bidden altogether by the spread-
ing boughs of a forest tree.
And I was standing and looking at these things
with many sad and uneasy thoughts in my heart:
saddest were those which dreaded evil in store for the
family I am already beginning to love.
I heard a ringing laugh. Cleland dashed out upon
the turace with all her dogs, her father in pursuit.
He soon caught her by the curls floating round her
shoulders, and the two struggled together, laughing
and shouting with glee. He kissed her, carried her
away into the house, and I saw no more.
My fears were premature. All was tranquil and
happy within doors; and I too entered the house, a
heavy weight lifted from my mind.
Maxall did not appear at dinner. He sent a message
by Domingo to the effect that he was indisposed for
company. George Ingestre and his children were
in the highest spirits; they laughed, talked, and
romped with unflagging gaiety, and wondered at my
sombre mood.
After tea Ross asked for music.
"Sing, papa! sing a glorious song, and Miss Waal
will play the harp."
I could not refuse Mr. Ingestre's impetuous solicita-
tions to do so, after this was said. I have carefully
refrained hitherto from singing or playing in his pre-
sence, thinking music, of all things, might awaken
some recollection of me and other times.

It did not. I played and sang a song I thcught he
must remember—an old Indian cradle chant, singular
and beautiful. No; his memory is gone; he listened,
made a disparaging remark, and begged mfi to sing
something more suited to my powers—some operatic
gem would please him better.

The foregoing was written two hours ago. Cleland
was in her bed, and dreaming; Ross in the library,
poring over his Greek and Latin; his father walking
up and down the terrace beneath my window, smoking
his cigar. If I lifted my eyes from this paper, I could
see him in the bright moonlight strolling up and down.
I could even inhale the odour of his cigar, for the
window is open, the air is so mild and genial.
That was three hours ago. Cleland dreams on;
Ross sleeps the unbroken sleep of youth; but his
father will scarcely slumber to-night--he has seen that
woman as well as I.

(To be continued.)

1 CROWNIIQG OUR LADY OF BOULOGNE.

Sunday last was the day appointed for adorning
with a crown the statue of Our Lady of Boulogne. It
happened that the festival coincided with the cente-
n try of the birth of Monsignor Haffreingue, who
desiened and saw to its completion the present
cathedral. The number of persons who flocked into
the city from all parts of Fiance and from the south
of England to witness the ceremony was estimated at
0,000. The cathedral was splendidly decorated for
the occasion, and the route of the procession and,
indeed, the whole city was adorned with flags,
wreaths, garlands of flowers, and triumphal
arches. The site chosen for the ceremony was
near the town-hall on the Place Godefroi de Bouil-
lon. A large and lavishly-decorated platform, with
raised dais for the bishops, stood in one corner of the
Place, and in the background rose a fortress, built in
the style of a thousand years ago, through the gate of
which could be seen the approach of the Virgin in the
legendary boat. In the morning Bishop Clifford cele-
brated pontifical Mass at the Cathedral, and the
crowns received the apostolic blessing from the Nuncio.
At half-past three, amid an immense crowd of spec-
tators, began the ceremony of the day. The prelates
having previously mounted the dais, the statue was
placed on the platform. After the reading of the
Papal Bull, the delivery of an address by a Dominican
preacher, and the chanting of the "Regina Cceli" by
the choir, Monsignor di Rende placed the large and
glittering crown on the statue's head, and
afterward's adorned the brow of the Infant
with a coronet. The ceremony was witnessed with
the utmost enthusiasm by the whole of the spectators.
Then followed the procession generale—the great
annual religious pageant, which is almost as familiar
to visitors as to the Boulonnais themselves. It was
brought up by Monsignor Dennel, bishop of the
diocese, the Bishops of Mans, Beauvais, Amiens,
Laeon, Soisson, Limoges, Lydda, Aire, Monsignor
Clifford, Bishop of Clifton, the Ai chbishops of Cham-
bery, Rheims, and Cambrai, and finally Monsignor di
Ronde, the Papal Nuncio, who was kept in his place
for hours blessing the children who were brought to
him by the townsfolk and others. The order kept
throughout the day, in spite of the assemblage of
such vast masses of people, was admirable, and not a
single incident occurred of luch a nature as to mar
the finest spectacle seen in -Boulogne within living
memory. At night the while town was illuminated.

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