The Irish standard., 1915-10-23

bless you!" came back; came back in
hours Of trial. when her soul was sad
and weary, and the world looked bleak;
came back when she had climbed high
on the ladder of literary fame. and be-
meath her she could hear the good
wishes Of her friends and the sneers
Of her foes.
He went briskly down the street,
as man relieved of a burden might
go; and Margaret re-entered the par.
lor. She locked the door and drew
down the curtains, shutting out every
ray of sunshine. Then she fell on
the sofa, and gave vent to her grief
in tears and sobs.
She tore the rose from her hair,
and crushed it till the soft petals wept
too. The thorns pierced her fingers
and the palms Of her hands, the blood
wetting the heart of the rose, but that
pain was relief to her. Il shall al
ways, always hate roses" she moaned.
She was not acting now.
In that same juncture of time, Dun
can Fox was in his room, kneeling be-
fore a little bisque image of the Blessed
Virgin.
What woman you must have been,
my Queen, since even now such women
as Margaret Coyne are in this world!"
The day of his leaving for the
seminary came in September. Dun
can glanced around the station at his
crowd of friends, but Margaret Coyne
was not there.
Three years later, the day of his
ordination came. The seminary chapel
was crowded with friends, but Mar
garet Coyne was not there. The day
of his first mass came, and the church
was crowded with devout worshippers,
but Margaret Coyne was not there.
She had dropped out of his life for
ever.
Fifteen long years had rolled away.
It was wintry night, and the snow
was falling. The cohorts of snow.
fakes pursued one another, trem-
blingly obeying the voice of their stern
master, the wind.
The doors of st. Joseph church at
Locust Gap were opening and clos.
ing, opening and closing. Inside the
lights were burning; and, solemn
sight! a priest in vestments lay on
his bier at the feet of the Lord he
had so faithfully served.
The pastors work was done; he
had fought the good fight. He had
had slight attack of pneumonia, the
day was wet and chilly, his duty called
him to attend a sick man. He went,
caught cold, died. Yet who would ever
think Of putting laurel wreath on
that priests lowly tomb? No year
passes but such deaths occur. Men
have not time to read about them, and
newspaper writer's, knowing that, pru-
IDENTIFY keep them out of print.
A tall slender woman entered the
church.
"Who is she?' asked one woman of
another on the church steps.
"Why, she JUST came today. She is
staying at McCarthy's hotel, and they
show her lots of attention. She is a
famous writer, hear, and Irish too,
God bless her! Sure they're coming
from all over to look at our own
Father Fox. Thanks be to God, he's
getting more honor in death than he
ever got in life. tell you what,
Mrs. Boyle, one don't need to go to
Italy for saints. Just to think of a
man like Father Fox staying his life
up here in the coal regions; first at
that mud hole, Mine Run, then here at
Locust Gap"
Margaret Coyne was looking down
at the dead priest. The peace of his
thin, worn countenance was reflected
in her beautiful face. He had changed
in appearance; she had not. More
mature she was; but it was the ma
turity that comes to the full-blown
flower. She knelt long in the church
by the body and prayed; then with a
farewell glance at the dear face, went
out into the storm.
Everything was white, pure white,
like the soul that had gone. With
tear-wet eyes, she stood upon the
church steps and gazed at the desc.
late-looking little town; at the high,
bleak mountains with their bare
trees; at the colliery, crazy, awful
monster to her eyes; at the huge boiler
house whence came the screams of the
imprisoned steam; and lastly her eyes
rested on the ramshackle homes of the
miners.
"And here he spent his time," she
thought; here he spent his days and
nights, that wonderful mind, that