glance at Canada as it was in the days of the Venerable Mother Mary of the Incarnation" is the subject of a very useful introductory chapter; and the last pages are devoted to a slight sketch of the history of the old Monastery of Quebec, which was built two hundred and forty years ago and is still flourishing, being only twice rebuilt meanwhile. There is a wonderful variety of instructive and edifying incidents described in a very interesting manner in the twenty-seven chapters which intervene between the two we have mentioned. Many recent miracles seem to testify to God's wish that his humble handmaid should yet receive the public honours of the Church. XI. Other recent Publications. (Various Publishers.) WE are forced to wait another month before introducing fully to the attention of our readers the second and concluding volume of the Rev. Thomas Meyrick's "Lives of the Early Popes" (R. Washbourne.) Among the recent publications of the Gaelic Union the smallest and cheapest is Part II. of the First Book of Lessons in Gaelic by J. E. N. From Chicago has come to us an eloquent and fine-spirited Address delivered by Mr. William Onahan at the laying of the corner stone of Marquette College at Milwaukee on the last Feast of the Assumption of Our Blessed Lady. Floreat ! NO ROOM! THE APPEAL OF THE GOOD SHEPHERD.* BY HELENA CALLANAN. "There was no room for them."-LUKE, i. 7. GOD pity all the waifs and strays who throng our streets this Christmas night, And find no place in loving hearts, for whom no home or hearth is bright; But they who blotted from their souls the impress fair of faith and love, And left the pure, sweet ways of life, should most of all our pity move. Where are they now, those twenty-one ?-poor hapless sisters, where are they?— Cast back upon their awful past, to tread again their guilty way; Back to a cold and heartless world, with sorrow and despair so rife; Perchance back to the waters deep, to end in sin their sinful life. * The following entry was made recently in the Diary of the Good Shepherd Convent in this city: "Twenty-nine penitents applied for admission during the last two months, for want of funds eight only of these have been taken in."-Cork Examiner, Dec. 4, 1879. The Shepherd called his wandering sheep to hide them in his shelter ing arms, They heard his voice so wondrous sweet; He drew them by his tender charms Out of the darkness into light, the light of his own gracious face; Full often in their early days He fed them with the living bread; They knocked at his own door, and yet we opened not to let them in. His love had sought and found them out, in humble penitence and tears; They came, poor weary prodigals, here to forget their blighted years. O Lord! 'twas hard to bid them go, when they would fain thy mercy seek, To send the pleaders from our gates with broken heart and spirit weak. O trembling Babe in Mary's arms! let thy low wailing once again Re-echo in man's heart, and plead for those who strive to break the chain That fetters them to earth and sin, though they could once their sphere adorn With souls as pure and free from taint as those who pass them by with scorn. Fond Mother, when your little ones to-night shall cluster round your knee, Lisping their Christmas carols sweet, with happy innocence and glee, Think of the homeless, friendless ones for whom the gulf is yawning wide: Once they rejoiced at Bethlehem, and sorrowed with the Crucified. To-night the Christmas chimes proclaim the lowly birth of Mary's Son; Oh! by the love that brought thus low, from heaven's bright throne the holy One, Help them ere yet it be too late, to taste and see the Lord is sweet, To call him Father once again, and let their tears fall at his feet. Help them for our sweet Mother's sake, the pearl of our poor fallen race Her Mother's heart will hear their plaint, and from their path dark evil chase; And for the Magdalen's dear sake, who watched the tomb where Jesus lay Ah! surely 'tis a noble work to rescue souls from direst woe, You'll read engraven on his heart the record of this Christmas night. MISTAKEN: A STORY OF THE ZULU WAR. BY JOSEPHINE M. BLACK. S a rule, we resent the charge of "not knowing our own mind," as an aspersion on the strength and force of our character; but such is a mistake; and it is indubitable how frequently the most reliable and reliant characters have found instances where time and circumstances alone proved to them the truth and the whole truth. Mary Tredgold did not know the true state of her own mind or heart about four years ago, when Frank Penruth left England for South Africa; and it took a considerable impetus, indirectly brought about by no less a personage than Cetawayo himself, to show it to her, and yet hers is a rarely determined character. But she has given me permission to amuse our readers with the little tale, and so I proceed. She had grown like a beautiful wild flower on a desolate spot of the coast of Cornwall. Her father was one of those gentle, unambitious beings who are content to live out their guileless lives in the old homestead, heedless of the flight of time, with its many changesits raising of the lowly, or levelling of the lofty; heedless, too, of the fact that each generation advances in its requirements, and that something is needed now-a-days besides a roof to cover one, and substantial meals to eat; and Mary's future did not promise a perfect security for even these. He had wedded his first love, and settled down with her in the old home, where sire and grandsire had dwelt before him, and he concluded, if he thought about the matter at all, that his only daughter, when her turn came, would do likewise. Mary picked up an education as best she could-from her mother, from the village schoolmistress, from the books in their small but well-chosen library. And this last was the most important item; for as she read, her soul awakened, and her rare talents began to show themselves. Heroes and heroines of history would weave themselves in with the scenes around her, where, the waves rippled and gleamed in the sunlight, or dashed in thunder against the cliffs in the storm, and where long stretches of woodland reddened in the golden glow of the setting sun. The house stood up a little way from the cliffs. There was no other house in sight. It was pretty and homelike on close inspection, but looked desolate enough from the sea. Pleasureseekers, passing in excursion steamers, and suffering from a dearth of topics of conversation, speculated as to what would pay anyone to live VOL. VIII No. 89, November, 1880. 42 in so lonely a spot. But it was a dear and happy home to her who looked out at them from the low, broad window-sill, weaving artistic fancies of galleys bearing old Saxon kings to their court in Falmouth. At last an aunt paid a visit to the lone spot, and discovered her pretty niece and a portfolio, which told her that she had found an artist. She ended by carrying Mary to London with her, and so we met. How well I remember the day when she came into the Kensington Museum, bearing herself with such reserve and coldness, so that only a slight hurry in her movements told, what I afterwards found to be the case, that she was intensely shy. As she passed down the room, I thought how graceful, but how almost impertinently self-possessed she was; and she was thinking, meanwhile, how awkward and countrified these London girls must think her. She wore a dress of black velveteen and a broad velvet hat, with a scarlet bird in front. Her dress was by no means fashionable, and yet there was an evident attempt to make her appearance so. Her brown hair was rolled into as small a "knot" as its luxuriance would admit of; a fashionable lace ruff made the round throat look rounder and whiter; and a curly "fringe" lay on the low, broad forehead. I thought that in that forehead and in the straight look of the gray eyes, and about the determined lines of the pretty mouth, lay promise of great intellect, though circumstances had kept it somewhat dormant as yet. I was interested, and when I am interested I invariably inquire further. I inquired further in Mary's case, and consequently we became fast friends. I say consequently, for no one could come in the guise of a friend to Mary's heart without finding a rare gem of talent and enthusiasm, with a sweet, almost childish innocence and freshness, rarely found in one of her years, and born of the circumstances of her birth and training. No wonder that Frank Penruth fell a victim to the flower-like charms of my new friend. Several little circumstances had fostered the growth of our friendship, and when we parted at the end of the session, it was with the understanding that she was to come to me on a visit in the autumn, for our homes proved to be only some fifteen miles distant. Mary's year at Kensington showed a progress rarely known in the somewhat tedious study of painting; mine showed sufficient mediocrity of merit to content my father, who declared that his children should have no smatterings, with a view to which he had us educated at a series of academies intended for professionals-a system which, en passant, I commend to all my readers. There was something absolutely refreshing in Mary Tredgold's genuine enjoyment of every attempt at dissipation offered her in our quiet though once stately old home, and I assure you our gaiety was of the tamest and most unsophisticated character. She was full of character and imagination. She had read quite enough of romance to be ardent and loving, though she had never poisoned the source of thought in her sweet nature by a taste for feverish weekly publications. Miss Muloch and Holme Lee, with, of course, the immortal Dickens, were her ideals of novelists; and Miss Muloch has a delightful way of making one feel better when laying down her books than we were when taking them up; and this is a decided advantage over many other hours of enjoyment not filled, perhaps, as fully as her books will do. It was the romance of such as these which found its way to Mary's heart, and she was perfectly fresh to the world. I delighted in seeing her enjoy herself. I strove to furnish each day with such entertainment as lay within my power, and in my worthy endeavours I was ably seconded by my cousin, Frank Penruth. Frank was taking the full of his last summer at home-for years or for ever it remained for time to prove. He grudged each bright day its passage; but he had fixed his mind on South Africa, and looked upon it as his destination, from a certain date, some four years ago, when circumstances proved to him beyond doubt that he was losing his youth and endangering his future fortunes by remaining at home, unless in the event of a certain turn of circumstances, which had too much of "waiting for dead men's shoes" about it to please him. Who can tell how we hoard and, as it were, dole out to ourselves, those last days in a happy home which we are about to leave, not knowing when and how we shall return? The morning beauty about the old place, with the delicious freshness in the air and the indescribably dewy shadows lying under the old trees on the lawn, rouse slumbering remembrances of the happy days gone by. We watch the evening shadows grow long, and listen to the mellow songs of wild birds, as with pathetic pauses in their solemn hymn they sing to the dying day; and when we turn indoors at last, it is, perhaps, to listen to the mother's voice singing sweet old songs; and the tears come to our eyes with the thought of how long it may be ere we hear that voice again. For Frank, Mary Tredgold threw a glamour about that last summer that made her seem different to him from anyone he had ever known or was ever likely to know. She saw at once how she had pleased him. At first she looked upon him as one of the many little conquests which, small as her experience was, had been hers: for Mary was strangely attractive; and then she began to see the true depth of his character and the consequent depth of his love for her. Her heart seemed to find rest in that love, and in a little time she would have been truly devoted to him. She was fond of admiration, and so far she had merely taken admiration for what it was worth, and enjoyed it; but her heart was untouched. Real love shown for her awoke a sort of |