to go," except for one thing: she had not been provided with the Carmelite habit she wished to be buried in. As night approached, she became uneasy on this subject, and begged that some one would go to the convent and try to procure what she wanted. By-and-by there was heard a ring at the convent gate, and an urgent message was delivered to the nuns, of which the plain meaning was that Biddy was departing, and could not die easy until she had got a "habit" to be buried in. The implied request was complied with. Next day the nuns, in making their rounds of the village, called at the poor woman's house. "So poor Biddy is no more," said one of the nuns, on entering the humble tenement. "Well, then, ma'am," replied one of the neighbours," she isn't dead at all, glory be to God! She got a change for the better, and sure here she is to speak for herself." "Look, now, dear," broke in Biddy, with her grave clothes still strongly in her mind, "this habit won't answer me at all at all; it's too long entirely-hanging over my feet. I always cut my petticoats nice and tidy, so I did; and sure I couldn't have the like of this trailing after me in purgatory!"

For many a year it was the ardent desire of the Irish Sisters of Charity to have a house into which they could receive-not sufferers from a temporary illness who might, under good treatment, be restored to health; nor persons afflicted with incurable diseases, who yet might linger for months or years; but those on whom the hand of death was manifestly laid, and who, for that very reason, were not, strictly speaking, admissible into the existing hospitals. Providence at length opened a way; for, as St. Teresa has it, his Divine Majesty never fails to further true desires to their end. The generous gift of a Dublin family, whose alms are commensurate with their princely fortune, enabled the Sisters to meet the first large outlay, in altering and furnishing, so as to serve its new purpose, the house at Our Lady's Mount, lately the Novitiate of the Congregation; while the bequest of Mrs. John Sweetman, a member of another wealthy and eminently charitable family, supplied the means for carrying on the work of the institution in its first stage. On the 9th of December, 1879, the Hospice for the Dying was formally opened with an impressive religious ceremonial.

It was a happy inspiration to place the new institution under the protection of the Virgin Mother, who received the last sigh of St. Joseph, and stood by the cross of the Redeemer of the world. Happy, too, was the choice of the word "hospice," a word infinitely more pleasing than "hospital" or "asylum," "refuge" or "retreat," and marking at once the urgency of the need and the limit of the stay.

The word conjures up a vision of a sea-board city of the middle ages. In the midst rises a house, towards which pilgrims bound for the Holy Sepulchre and already far on their way, painfully direct their steps. At the gate come forth to meet them Hospitallers vowed to

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religious life and chivalrous deeds, robed in a long black habit and wearing a golden cross in the middle of the breast.. These men of knightly countenance and tender hand lead in the pilgrims, wash their wounded travel-stained feet, refresh them with meat and drink, and then, when rest and nurture have restored their exhausted strength, send them forth once more in good heart with their faces turned to Jerusalem.*

Or again, the auspicious title recalls the hospice on the Alpine heights, with its open door and grateful succour; where travellers, beaten by the winds and drenched by the rain-clouds, sinking under the fatigues and affrighted by the perils of the pass, find repose for their perturbed spirit and gain strength to accomplish yet another stage.

Between the 9th of last December and the 9th of the ensuing March, that is to say, during the first three months of its existence, the hospice received no less than forty of these pilgrims and travellers. Nineteen passed to the other world. Some lingered for a few weeks; others departed after not many days; all, without exception, thanked God for throwing open to them the gates and granting them a prayerful peaceful time ere they were summoned to appear before His face.

Certainly the atmosphere of the place is well calculated to refresh the weary frame and soothe the suffering spirit. Here there is no gloom. The sunshine enters freely and brightens the walls; the birds sing and flutter on the boughs outside; dull and distant falls the murmur of the city on the ear-only the convent bell tolls near, sweetly and solemnly marking the hours of sacrifice and prayer. To and fro move the Sisters of Charity, in discharge of their various ministrations; the priest makes his welcome visit; and the kindly doctor takes his daily round, exhausting the resources of his science in procuring alleviation for each and every all. Books are not banished, neither are newspapers prohibited; and if a visitor enters with a cheerful face, and some pleasant conversation, he or she is made welcome.

Although the prosperity of this unique institution will depend on the support it may receive, there is no difficulty in forecasting its future. Assuredly, it is destined to flourish on the Irish soil. The prayers of the poor will rest on it in benediction; and the rich will bestow on it their gifts, enlarging its bounds and widening its door,

* The Irish were even before the Knights of St. John in this good work. On the Continent they had many houses for the reception of pilgrims going to Rome and Jerusalem. A monastery, founded by an Irish bishop in the 8th century on an island in the Rhine near Strasbourg, was patronised by Pepin, Carloman, and Charlemagne. A confirmation grant of 810 states that it was founded for pilgrims of the Scotic (Irish) nation; and it is attested by the signatures of the abbot, seven bishops, and one presbyter, all of them bearing Irish names. (See Dr. Wattenbach's "Account of the Irish Monasteries in Germany," translated and annotated by the Rev. Dr. Reeves of Armagh.)

while providing by the same act a viaticum for their own long journey. Thrice blessed will be the "pilgrims and strangers on the earth" who rest in this hospice awhile, under the shadow of the cross, indeed, and but with garments washed in the blood of the Lamb, fixed in loving trust on the Gate of Heaven and the Morning Star.*

eyes

BRACTON; OR, SUB SIGILLO.

A TALE OF 1812.

BY OLIVER SLOANE.

CHAPTER IX.

ALL BUT OVER THE BRINK.

ALONE, in his own room, after his interview with Knollis, whom he left with the decanters, Sir Edward gave way to his hitherto suppressed rage and fear. He walked up and down, as one beside himself. The polished floor was dinted under his footsteps, as he strode from the carpet and spurned the oaken boards. Then again he would step forward noiselessly as a panther, when it steals away from the huntsman, or sights its prey-his bloodless face working, his eye fixed. It was no slight issue that he had now to encounter. This man, this Knollis, coarse-minded, relentless as he was, greedy of the gain to be coined out of the knowledge that had become his, maintained over his victim the grasp of a giant. He held him, as in a vice, and by one of the most sordid of all compulsions, the possession of a shameful secret. Had Knollis become conscious of a murder committed by the owner of Ernham Hall, his power, said Edward to himself, could hardly be more absolute. Shame, exposure! To a man of Bracton's temperament they ranked very evenly with death.

Murder!-but what brought the imagination of that into his mind? He recoiled from his own bad thoughts. "Is thy servant a dog, that

Although the succour of the poor in their last hours is the principal object of the institution, persons in a higher position, as the prospectus intimates, are enabled to share under certain conditions in the benefits of the hospice; for "it is lamentably true that many who are by no means of the humbler ranks are, nevertheless, friendless in their extremity, and find themselves without a kind hand to aid them when strength is departing, or a kind voice to console and sustain them when the shades of death are darkening round them." It must also be noted that religious differences are no impediment to admission; and that non-Catholic patients shall not be at all interfered with.

he should do this thing?" was said of old by one who, determined and ruthless, though not as yet quite depraved by a passion of cruelty, ended by committing the crimes from whose first aspect he revolted. So insidiously does the serpent steal into men's thoughts, and if he cannot mask himself wholly under the leaves, yet makes the rattle noiseless till just before the fatal spring.

"Murder?" Bracton whispered the word, and shrank; then again whispered it, hissed it, slowly. His walk, his tigrish step, now quickened, now relaxed, as he thought out his thoughts. The hair rose upon his head; beads of sweat stood on his brow. That he should come to this—even to debate it, even to think of it, without flinging it from him as a defilement !

Murder?—

He stood still. He folded his arms tightly, as though to still the beating of his heart, which was audible. His head was thrust forward; the muscles of the face rigid, as cords drawn taut against a whirlwind. The expression of that set mouth bodes no good to the man who has come across his path. He stood thus for a space; then resumed his unsteady walk through the room.

Knollis was under his roof. They had returned to the house together, after their "angry parle;" the blackleg was then armed, and Bracton defenceless. But now-the one was drinking himself, it was to be supposed, into a drunken sleep in the dining parlour; and Sir Edward, the victim, in the hands No; not in his hands, while

he can use his own!

He paused; he stood opposite to an escritoire with many drawers: all of them locked. He looked at it fixedly. Then he began again to walk up and down, but ever, as he passed and repassed the spot, stole a glance at that locked cabinet, then, with a shudder, or an impatient gesture, turned away.

Whisper to him now, O good angel! for it is the crisis of his fate. The crowding evil powers are at work, within him and around. If no ray descends that wretch from above, if no voice, if no hallowed upon influence speak such powerful truths as are weakly spoken-too often weakly-even from a chair of truthful teaching-then-the swift deed, and the brand of Cain!

Nearer, nearer to the cabinet he draws now; at each turn he makes, the tether of his walk is shorter, shorter. Like the fascinated, trembling creature, that cannot withdraw its eye from the upward glance of the serpent coiled beneath the tree, so Bracton pauses, hesitates-he almost totters. His hand steals towards a concealed pocket, searches for something, finds it-withdraws his hand, still empty.

Aid him, all heavenly powers! aid him, by your love and pity! He has turned away again, to resume his walk; his back is to the door. There is a knock, but he does not hear it. He is listening only

to his own fierce passion. He does not even hear his own voice, "It is too much!" he exclaims to himself, but loud and distinct :much! It shall not be again!--I will have him!-I will have his blood!"

:

"too

He turns now, moving eagerly towards the cabinet, and faces a man, who has entered unperceived. "Who are you, sir?" cries Bracton, flaming forth. He rushes at him, plants his hands on his shoulders, forces him backward to the door. "Who are you, villain? Speak! or I'll

"Sir Edward," stammers the man, aghast at his violence, “I— I came "?

"You what, sir? How dare you intrude?" Bracton gasped in his turn with agitation, while a fear of having betrayed himself now began to mingle with his anger.

"Your valet, Sir Edward, is ill, that is-not so quite well-and I came instead, to see if you wanted—"

"I want nothing; begone!" exclaimed Bracton, motioning him vehemently to the door, and striding after him as the man, willingly enough, disappeared. "Stay," he added, loudly, before the intruder vanished down the passage: 66 come back, I command you."

Major Lavicount's valet, for it was he, returned, with a hesitating step, and a look on his alarmed face, as of one who faces a maniac because he cannot help it.

"See, my man," said Bracton, commanding himself, under strong sense of necessity, though voice and hand still shook, with horror alike, and this new dread of discovery: "see, my good fellow, you came upon me suddenly, and found me agitated, certainly. Bad news from my agent in the-in the West Indies-they have rather unhinged me. Thank you, thank ye-I do not need your services; much obliged. I hope that Semmes makes you comfortable? You must accept this from me "-putting a couple of guineas into the man's hand-" and now, good night. Thank the major for sending you; and-hark ye -you need not mention the West Indies, you understand; it might set them all talking down stairs." So saying, he waved the man away. This interruption had broken in upon him for a while; but its effect was too weak to resist the master-passion of revenge and hatred that had taken possession of his soul. It was a conflict of currents; or rather, a river pouring itself into a tide. The tide swept it away. Bracton has got to hate Knollis with desperation; and desperately he will compass his evil will.

His hand is in that secret pocket again. The key of the cabinet now glitters in it; but the hand shakes so, that he can hardly find the lock. A drawer opens. Look-if you wish to meet a horrible sight -not at the drawer, but at the face of the man who is bending over it. For the things themselves that lie there are harmless, unconscious, irresponsible—the unresisting agents of man's free action. It is the