love. She never knew it. Uniting her heart with the Sacred Heart, and clinging to the Mother of grief, she entered into a mystical and unbroken union with Him who carried our sorrows; she pierced far into the mystery of submission and suffering, whereby the Blessed Virgin became our Lady of Ransom.

Captives returning home, freed from chains and cruel usage, were often told of her, and often came to thank her for her work of prayer and self-denial. She never seemed to comprehend them. But for a time she failed not to ask of each newcomer one eager question: "Hast ever seen in the land of slavery a little dark-haired child of Italy, with great black eyes? He had Our Lady's beads about his neck, carved quaintly from the orange-wood, but I fear the infidel soon took them from him." And when always she could find no satisfaction from their answers, sighing she said, "God's will be done." But by and by she ceased to ask, she even ceased to care. Literally, she forgot all, she gave up all in the fulfilment of her vow. Her home beside the sea, the love of her child, the thought of that far-off land of the infidel, each alike faded from her. The one thought of her Divine Lord possessed her soul. When at last she lay upon her death-bed the priest who had been the instrument of bringing her to Rome, was the same who guided her through the vale of death to the heavenly city. Watching beside her he thought again of all her suffering, of her long years of work and of waiting. She

had grown so holy by their perfecting power that it seemed to him God must grant her at the last, if only in prophetic vision, the fruit of all her labor.

And even as he thought this he saw a look of awe and rapture kindle in her face, and he bent forward eagerly, thinking that God was indeed gracious to her in her hour of death.

He was gracious, but not as Father Jerome thought. "Do you see him?” he asked. "Is Paolo safe? Has God shown him to you?"

She did not answer. She did not hear the name that once had stirred every fibre of her being to dare all for that one beloved soul.

"Paolo ?" the priest repeated, longing to gain additional evidence of God's love for this holy soul. "Is it Paolo ?"

But she had forgotten earth. The name woke no answering chord within her.

"Daughter," he said earnestly, "in the name of holy obedience what is it that you see?"

And then she who had bent her neck beneath the sweet yoke of the three great vows, but most deeply had entered into the meaning of the subjugation of the will, answered steadily, with the same upward look of awe and rapture on her face, "I see my Lord," and so she died.

The next day a priest, come to Rome from a distant Italian town, saw a great crowd gathered round a church, pressing one upon another, climbing to the windows, besieging the doors.

"What causes this?" he asked of a man standing on the outskirts of the throng, and the man made answer: "A holy woman died last night in the odor of sanctity. We come to honor her, and to gain some blessing from her. If I can but reach to touch her I doubt not that I shall be healed of my malaria that torments me sorely."

"I will lend you a hand, friend," said the stranger kindly. "Perhaps my priestly dress will help us through the crowd."

They made their progress slowly, and so heard much of what the people were saying all around them. Listening, the priest showed signs of wonder and surprise.

"It is reported," one man was saying to his neighbor, "that the Moors carried away her son some

the soul for whose ransom she had given her all had been spotless and pure with God those twenty years, wholly and forever His, and His alone? What need to tell her now, that while she had served and suffered for its sake on earth, it had served God

painlessly with angelic service face to face with Him? Far better than they knew it she knew all; nor could they grieve that here she had not known it, since through that path of pain and mystery she had been transformed into the likeness of her Lord.

GIVE to a man of culture, not a Catholic, certain books of the Quarterly series now in process of publication in England-the Life of St. Jane Frances de Chantal, for instance he may take exception to it here and there, but it is easy to suppose that he will be able to find enjoyment in the study which he can make of the character and life of this clear-headed, earnest-minded, womanly woman; she has much with which he can sympathize, much which will win his love, admiration, and respect, even while he coolly condemns her because she carried out that which eternal wisdom and truth justified, the leaving of father and children, houses and lands, for the love of God. Like a personal friend she stands before us, drawn by a woman's skilful hand. She and her portrayer are alike Catholics; ergo, of course, mistaken; but candid criticism will admit that there is truth and helpfulness in such a book.

Or give this critic the Life and Letters of St. Francis Xavier. Miracles are here, and hints of matters which are foreign to ordinary life and quite suspicious in their nature, but there is a strong counterbalance of more general and harmless topics; the reviewer will tell us that the work is scholarly, historical, moderate; that the letters are well worth reading, to gain an

idea of the practical working of a singular system which, in spite of hatred and scoff and with all the powers of the world arrayed against it, lives and works among us with undaunted will. So, too, the Life of Donna Luisa de Carvajal may win a not unkindly notice, if the critic be inclined to candor, and has a taste for hearing both sides of a disputed question; and the simplicity and sweetness of the Story of St. Stanislaus Kostka may waken the poetic element of his nature.

But, with the fifteenth volume of the series, the case is different. Notwithstanding touches of exquisite beauty, from first to last there is something here, unavoidable, prominent, even thrust upon our notice, which gives to the Chronicle of St. Antony of Padua a tone different from the other books we have named. There is hardly a chapter throughout which does not relate a miracle, and, in some, these marvels are told one after the other with hardly a pause to allow one to draw breath and make a sign of amazement; are told too in a calm, matter-of-fact fashion, as if such things were actually true, and all men must credit them as calmly as they are related. You tell us, the critic exclaims, that this saint was a great preacher, the hammer of heretics, but it is little you have to say of his preaching compared with all you tell of his

miracles. This book is a story-book, like the fairy tales we give our children. Do you expect us to believe it all?

Hardly do we open the account of St. Antony's life than we are told, that when he was once caring for a sick man, he was informed by God that the illness was occasioned by the devil. He immediately laid his habit over the sufferer and he was cured in an instant." From this time on the miracles follow in swift succession. At last we are told, as if it were one of the historical facts we learn at school, like the conquest of England by Julius Cæsar, that, on the evening of St. Antony's death near Padua, as a certain abbot, Don Thomas, was sitting in his room, miles distant from the death-bed, "his old scholar, Antony, came in and said to him, 'See, Father Abbot, I have left my little ass near Padua and am going in haste to my own country;' and so saying, he passed his hand under his chin, caressingly, and cured him of an affection of the throat from which he was suffering. As he disappeared through the door, the abbot hastily followed him to beg him not to be in so great a hurry to depart. But he saw nothing of him, and the persons who were in the antechamber into which Antony had seemed to pass declared that no one had entered it. Don Thomas sent to the monastery of the Friars Minor, inquiring whether he had been there, and when he heard that nothing had been seen of his beloved scholar and friend, he felt sure, of what was soon proved by news from Padua, that Antony had alluded to his mortal remains which he had just left at Arcella, and that paradise, not Portugal, was the country to which he was bound."

able state of mind, that he should expect us to believe so much? Does he believe it himself? Nothing contents him. The very preaching of the saint must be supernatural-we are told that he had the gift of tongues; that men of different speech, listening to him at one and the same time, heard him each in his own language; that, however great the crowd, however loud the tumult, his voice was distinct to all; when men refused to hear him, he bade the fish of the sea attend, and they obeyed, coming towards the shore in shoals, and listening attentively. He was seen in two places at the same instant; he predicted of the future, and his prediction was fulfilled; he read the thoughts of men; he penetrated into the wiles of Satan when other persons saw in these wiles only the work of their fellows; he healed the dying and raised the dead; was transported by mysterious power and with marvellous speed from one place to another far away. Satan once employed physical force against him, and almost strangled him; the saint made the holy sign, said as well as he was. able the name of the Blessed Virgin and a favorite hymn in her honor, and lo! his cell was filled with light whereby he saw his enemy flee from the place. He who loved the Immaculate Mother, and conquered by her name, won special favor from the Divine Son. A friend named Tiso, passing the saint's room one night, "saw brilliant rays of light streaming under the door, and on looking through the keyhole he saw a little child of marvellous beauty standing upon a book which lay upon the table, and clinging with both arms round Antony's neck. Who was he? But as he gazed, unable to take his eyes away, and saw the flood of heavenly light with which he was surrounded, and the ineffable tenderness with which he embraced Antony, and in return was caressed by him, and he felt his own soul

Death does not close the list of wonders. Chapters follow, telling of more marvels after death. Is this writer one of us, in full possession of his powers, and in a reason

filled with an ineffable sweetness and rapture in watching the mutual endearments of the saint and his wondrous visitor, Tiso knew with a certainty that needed no further proof that it was indeed the Divine Babe of Bethlehem, who was consoling his favored servant and filling him with heavenly delight." It is also related that at Antony's death "he lifted his eyes to heaven and kept them fixed there, while his whole face beamed with a light and brightness strange to see in a dying man. Fra Ruggiero, who was supporting him in his arms, asked him what he saw, and he answered, very clearly, 'I see my God.' Soon afterward the eyes closed to earthly things, to open forever upon the beatific vision.

Then suddenly, while still in Arcella the death was thought a secret, the children in Padua learned the truth by mysterious means. "Our Father St. Antony is dead," they cried, going about the city, tearful and sad; crowds hastened to the spot where the body lay. "Whither have you gone, loving Father of Padua ?” So the lamentation rose, "Have you really gone away, and left behind the children who repented and were born again to Christ through you? Where shall we find another to preach to us orphans with such patience and charity?" As in a solemn triumph they bore him to the city from the quiet spot where he had died, and they laid him on a shrine. Then the miraculous power so great in life appeared more marvellous still in death. The touching of the very shrine gave healing; even outside of the church cures were effected upon persons who, because of the great crowd, could not enter. Through summer and winter, by day and night, processions came in penitence and prayer to honor Antony and seek his aid, and it was said that they who dared approach in a state of sin received no relief for their bodily ills, but after being

cleansed in the sacrament of penance the help they sought was granted. So great was the devotion, and so resplendent God's witness to Antony's sanctity, that, notwithstanding Rome's usual caution in such matters, this saint was canonized before the first anniversary of his death came. All the bells in Lisbon, his native place, rang of their own accord just at the time when in far-off Rome the sentence was pronounced. Year by year the miracles went on; diseases were cured, things lost were found, dangers at sea were escaped, infidels were converted, the dead were raised, and in this "practical," skeptical, nineteenth century, it is claimed by learned and God-fearing men that St. Antony's power is still exercised. What does all this mean?

Remember that not only worldlings display surprise and doubt in this regard. They are joined by myriads who call themselves Christians. Protestants, evangelical and unevangelical, are, for the most part, united here, that, granted miracles were ever wrought at all, the age of miracles is past, and a claim put forth for them is ordinarily regarded as proof positive that the claimant is either a deceiver or a dupe.

They

But down below this question lies the real difficulty. In this world, and on this day, men find themselves face to face with a Church which claims for herself, and for herself alone, all they are and all they have. She will give no quarter in the ceaseless war she wages. must either be arrayed beneath her banner, or they must be her foes, whom, by weapons not of this world, but far more subtle, sure, and potent, she seeks with unremitting effort to conquer to her will. Greek, Russian, Anglican, Baptist, Methodist, Unitarian, may hold out the right hand of fellowship to one another as they please, embracing in their strivings after unity each new sect as it rises, but persistently this