you, Father O’Grady, when you need a change, come to Ireland.  You write:  “I do not know your part of the country, but I know what an Irish lake is like, and I often long to see one again.”  Well, come and see my lake; it’s very beautiful.  Woods extend down to the very shores with mountain peaks uplifting behind the woods, and on many islands there are ruins of the castles of old time.  Not far from my house it narrows into a strait, and after passing this strait it widens out into what might almost be called another lake.  We are trying to persuade the Government to build a bridge, but it is difficult to get anything done.  My predecessor and myself have been in correspondence on this subject with the Board of Works; it often seems as if success were about to come, but it slips away, and everything has to be begun again.  I should like to show you Kilronan Abbey, an old abbey unroofed by Cromwell.  The people have gone there for centuries, kneeling in the snow and rain.  We are sadly in need of subscription.  Perhaps one of these days you will be able to help us; but I shall write again on this subject, and as soon as I can get a photograph of the abbey I will send it.

’Yours very sincerely,

‘OLIVER GOGARTY.’

‘Now, what will Father O’Grady answer to all this?’ he said under his breath as he folded up his letter.  ’A worthy soul, an excellent soul, there’s no doubt about that.’  And he began to feel sorry for Father O’Grady.  But his sorrow was suddenly suspended.  If he went to London he wouldn’t be likely to see her.  ‘Another change,’ he said; ’things are never the same for long.  A week ago I knew where she was; I could see her in her surroundings.  Berkshire is not very far from London.  But who is Mr. Poole?’ And he sat thinking.

A few days after he picked up a letter from his table from Father O’Grady, a long garrulous letter, four pages about Kilronan Abbey, Irish London, convent schools—­topics interesting enough in themselves, but lacking in immediate interest.  The letter contained only three lines about her.  That Mr. Poole explained everything to her, and that she liked her work.  The letter dropped from his hand; the hand that had held the letter fell upon his knee, and Father Oliver sat looking through the room.  Awaking suddenly, he tried to remember what he had been thinking about, for he had been thinking a long while; but he could not recall his thoughts, and went to his writing-table and began a long letter telling Father O’Grady about Kilronan Abbey and enclosing photographs.  And then, feeling compelled to bring himself into as complete union as possible with his correspondent, he sat, pen in hand, uncertain if he should speak of Nora at all.  The temptation was by him, and he found excuse in the thought that after all she was the link; without her he would not have known Father O’Grady.  And so convinced was he of this that when he mentioned her he did so on account of a supposed obligation to sympathize once again with Father O’Grady’s loss of his organist.  His letter rambled on about the Masses Nora used to play best and the pieces she used to sing.