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The fire was dying, but he did not stoop to replenish it His thoughts were too holy and co to be broken in upon But they were broken by Ann's knock

"That McCarthy is sick ag'in," she said "'Tis a nice time for the likes of hio in the o now"

"Can't ye have wan night in peace?"

"McCarthy is peace, Ann You don't understand"

No, Ann didn't understand She only saw more labor She didn't understand that it was only this that the priest needed to crown the glory of his day

So Father Murray took his coat and hat and, with a light step, went out--a father going to the son who needed hi logs; but noas perturbed, borne down by a prescience of coe Fro now and then Finally he stood by his desk Above it hung a large crucifix His lips azed on the crucified Christ Then idly he picked up a book It fell open in his hand, and he gazed thoughtfully at the oft-scanned page How many times had he pondered those two lines, "I fear to love thee, sweet, because Love's the ambassador of loss"

Thus read the priest who felt that peace was no longer possible For a little while, perhaps--but not for long The call would coain, and he would have to answer He read onceone word as he spoke the lines softly to himself, "I fear to love thee, 'peace,' because Love's the aue unrest, this prelate who through hureater love, recalled his oords to Mark Griffin: "No one has lost what he sincerely seeks to find" Was not the past ht be found in any kind of duty He looked up into the face of the sculptured Christ, and a swiftly-receding wave of agony swept across his htly "A soldier of the Cross," he murmured, and the hand was raised in quick salute "Thy will be done" It was his final renunciation of self

Sinking into the chair before the desk, he sat there with bowed head At last he arose and, the book still in his hand, went back to his chair by the fire As he sat looking into the flareater works rose up before hiotten in his days of sorrow They were coan to be half afraid of these, his dream children Already they seemed too real