The morning star and Catholic messenger. [volume] (New Orleans [La.]) 1868-1881, 1875-08-29

gene, Why did God make IL sol
And he curled his lips, that could smile 50
exqeisitely in pity or tenderness, into bitter
laugh, and said, That Ii the CALLING problem
of my life--I eannos answer it.n
Then Aaked my dear mother, and she said,
T" It 10 because He does not consider riches q
gift needful for our getting to Heaven, my
honey. Don't you know, if He did, he would
always place them at least within the reach Of
honest labor, and never, as they often are,
within the reach of cheatcry and crime"
Then they are not really worth our thoughts
or our strivipgs, are they. mother 2" said 1.
"No, my honey; you see the only thing on
earth worth our strivings He has placed within
the reach of ALL"
"wbat, mother Z"
The right to heaven. Every one can gain
that"
told Eugene, and he was silent q long while
after, sitting leaning his head on bis hands.
Then he stood quite as long at the foot OF my
bed, looking down at me. will never forget
that look it was 60 completely and touchingly
full of sorrow that seemed to me to hold in it
something grander than common grief. So it
did, for then said he:
al think you understand all that tells to one
whose life has been a lie upon such mercy.
stand nobly reproached, my Picciola. But
can say no more. There are things in the
heart which words spoil, and this is one of
them"
"Yes" Words would have spoiled what
was in mine then. I think he saw it, for he
was silent for some time, and was glad to be.
In book be had brought me was this beautiful
thought, "Silence followed the song like
tear" Such seemed that silence to me. It was
delicious; it was more, it was heavenly, for
within it Gods presence deigned to veil itself,
making ecstacy.
After awhile said he:
al have never told you my story. am now
going to tell it to you and mother"-for q
long time he had called her thus" that you
may see what you have done for me-"
ct am glad. What is Picciolaf You called
me that just now. Why did you call me iti"
In beautiful language, peculiar to him when
he narrated anything, he then told me Sain-
tines exquisite story, saying at the end:
And you are to me in a captivity, not of
bolts or bars, to be sure, but worse, what Pic
ciola was to the poor prisoner"
ga very withered Piccioia," said I, smiling,
to hide the fact that my heart was weeping
for joy to hear such touching words of my
poor, crippled self. But he saw through the
smile.
"Nay, dear Pcciola, God keeps you here
with his mighty hand from that which might
wither your wonderful bloom. Not withered,
indeed, but still fresh from the miracle of his
touch, because untouched by the world"
It went to my heart-that is all I can say of
it here, and in that moment could say moth
ing.
After . few moments more he told us his
story. cannot put it exactly in his words,
but will as nearly as can, for they are so
much better than my own.
81 do not know" he said, "that could tell
you all my unworthiness, but 1 see you so
patient and so unconscious Of the grand mis-
sion your patience has fulfilled in my regard,
know of no other way to let yon see what you
have done, obScurely working for your Master
here, and would have you see it. / iken it
often in my own mind to the miracle achieved
by An humble violet, hidden in the shades of q
forest, where man was not supposed to pens
trate, and yet the perfection Of it's beauty CON
verified an inRdel idly roaming there to the
faith that won his salvation.
az was not always as you see me. I wss
brought mp TO believe myself rich, kept at the
best colleges. and surrounded by all those sd-
vantages consequent upon the possession of
wealth 1 am now twenty one; two years ego
Il was a mere boy then--the bitter trial came
to my life, which made mel will not say
what-less than o man certainly.
Il do not remember my mother; il had
any word or look Of hers to consecrate my
heart it might have striven to keep white, in
order to be worthy of holding that memory.
My father was one of those men who do not
impress a child with the idea of father at ALL
He was to me the banker who literally pro-
vided my funds; the arbiter who decided upon
laws for my movements the judge who SEN
fenced me if infringed on those laws; that
was about all. Wrapped up in business and
grief for my mother, the cause of whose death
was my life, he aud lived our lives as far
apart as if oceans divided us. He ordered
things with the object of making me worthy to