“And the Bishop?”

“I never make comparisons; they must always be to the disadvantage of one or the other,” replied this singular old man.  “And now I must away to my duties.”

“One word more,” said H.C. hastily.  “Will those picturesque ladies come again to Confession to-night?”

“To-night!” he returned reproachfully.  “Do you think those virtuous creatures pass their lives in sinning—­like ordinary beings?  No, no.  Besides—­enough’s as good as a feast, and they were well shriven last night.  They are now reposing in the odour of sanctity.  Au revoir, messieurs.  I see your hearts are in the cathedral, and I know that I shall meet you here again before Sunday.”

He departed.  We watched his stooping figure and his white hair moving slowly up the aisle, so fitting an object for the venerable building itself.  He disappeared in the sacristy, and a few moments after we found ourselves without the building, standing in the shadow of the great towers, under the grey skies of Quimper.

TO MY SOUL.

From the French of Victor Hugo.

    You stray, my soul, whilst gazing on the sky! 
      The path of duty is the path of life! 
    Sit by the cold hearth where dead ashes lie,
      Put on the captive’s chain—­endure the strife. 
    Be but a servant in this realm of night,
      O child of light!

    To lost and wandering feet deliverance bring;
      Fulfil the perfect law of suffering;
    Drink to the dregs the bitter cup; remain
      In battle last; be first in tears and pain—­
    Then, with a prayer that much may be forgiven,
      Go back to Heaven!

C.E.  MEETKERKE.

SO VERY UNATTRACTIVE!

“Yes,” meditated pretty Mrs. Hart; “I suppose it would be invidious to pass her over and ask the other three, but I would so much rather have them.”

“Cannot you ask the whole four?” suggested her sister.

“Does it not strike you as being almost too much of a good thing?  You see, our space is not unlimited.”

“Ask the three eldest,” said Bertie Paine decidedly.

“But I do not want her.  What use is she?  She can sing, certainly, but you cannot keep her singing all the evening; and the rest of the time she neither talks nor flirts.  And she is altogether so very unattractive,” ended Mrs. Hart, despondently.

“Who is it?” asked the handsomest man in the room, strolling up to the group by the window.  “Who is this unfortunate lady?  I always feel such sympathy with the unattractive, as you know.”

“Naturally,” laughed Mrs. Hart.  “The individual in question is a Miss Mildmay, a plain person and the eldest of four sisters.”

“Mildmay?  Who are they?  I used to know people of that name, and there were four girls in the family.  One of them—­her name was Minnie, I remember—­promised to grow up very pretty.”