matter, and will gradually come round to the belief that your troublesome old patient is truly and really gone."

"I don't see why I should," I answer laughingly. "If they are incorrect about one piece of news, it is equally possible they may be mistaken about another."

"Indeed!"

"Besides," I say slyly, "it may, after all, interest your Eminence to know that it was I who sent the news we read just now."

"You don't say so!" he laughs heartily. "Well, you are far and away too sharp for me. I daily find it more impossible to live up to you. What a veritable treasure you would have proved to one or two of the medieval French monarchs! As it is, your fine talent for intrigue would appear to be wasted here, for I am much too old to even pretend to match my dull brain with yours. I give you up; you are sadly beyond all reformation," he concludes, shaking his head in mock

think the Bishop will be able to reach us in time?”

"The Canons will arrive at three this afternoon. His lordship has promised to be here at half-past the hour,” I answer. "There is no haste, your Eminence; you will profit by the rest beforehand. It will be too late to come out again after the ceremony, and Brother Jerome, who is weather-wise, predicts a storm before evening. You will go into church dressed as you are now, I suppose?"

"No, my child, not so this time. Monsignor Leyton will bring with him my purple. I must on this one occasion wear the Cappa Magna."

"Is it so absolutely necessary, my lord? Will this not cause you undue fatigue ? remember reading somewhere that your venerable predecessor wore only his cassock when he made his last Profession of Faith."

"Yes, that is true; but he did so in his own private rooms, and there were only a few friends and his doctor present. To-day I intend to be wheeled into the church, and though only the members of our own community will be there, I cannot see why I should depart from the rules the Fathers have laid down. You see, in principle, this act will be public, and I shall be seated in my place for the last time."

Since he has made up his mind to do this, it would be unseemly to attempt delay. It is my one care to see that his strength is maintained during

the next few hours, for it is only too apparent that he is weaker. The long nights of pain and sleeplessness have told their tale. His face to-day looks ashy pale, and the tired eyelids droop pitifully. It grieves me beyond measure to see this strong man brought so low, and I cannot think that the loss of power is, as before, but temporary.

His weakness is so extreme that his smile is but raretruly a bad sign,—and apparently he is losing interest in some quite important matters on which his heart had been set. This was the more noticeable in the morning when his budget of letters came. "They can wait for once," he said. "I cannot deal with them now."

He is, however, sensibly relieved and cheered by the arrival of the Canons of his Chapter.

One by one they pass before him, kneeling to kiss his outstretched hand, as he sits enrobed in the rich purple garments of his office. They also are clothed in vestments

of the same regal colour, though of a different shade, for theirs is that of the papal court.

Last of all comes the Bishop auxiliary, tall and stately, and only a shade less handsome than the Cardinal himself. It is evident that His Eminence has

some communication of grave importance to make to him, for they are closeted together for the space of a quarter of an hour; and, at length, when he comes to us

So the solemn function is delayed a little until the dear old lady is seen hasteningnay, almost running-up the pathway to the church.

Slowly, silently, we traverse the long corridor which brings us to the sacred building, and pass through the open doors. Every head is bowed in prayer. There is no curiosity, no movement from the Brotherhood as we enter, excusable though it would surely have been at such a time. Their thoughts lie too deep for this. Not a sound is heard save that of our footsteps, and the soft rumbling of the chair-wheels.

It is my especial privilege to remain close by his side, the one dark figure among the blaze of purple.

It is almost dusk. A leaden sky above rains down upon the slated roof. We hear the pattering drops. The grey light is in harmony with the quiet sadness which seems to be settling round and about each one of us.

His voice is strangely pene

in a low tone. Every word is given with a startlingly clear enunciation. He is bidding us Good-bye.

The long Profession of Faith was read for him, for at the last moment he had given up his will to mine. He had wished to enact the whole; but, fearful of what might happen, I had urged him not to speak more than the farewell words.

"Very well," he had answered me, "it is clearly my duty to obey you; I will no longer insist."

The stillness around is almost oppressive; and, when he pauses for a moment, as he does sometimes, there is a silence like that of the grave. How he speaks to us from his fatherly heart! What counsel he gives! With what courage he inspires us! Never can be forgotten the treasured words he gives us with his blessing.

"Good-bye, good-bye, my children. May Almighty God's richest blessing rest upon you all, now and always. Farewell, my dear home friends! Farewell, farewell!"

Back again we take our precious burden, and presently, when his faithful retinue have left for the Chapter House, we two are once more alone.

With joy I welcome the news that he feels no worse, after all his trying exertion, and that he is free from pain. He favours me with his old gracious smile.

"Little pagan," he he says cheerily, "we will take off all

It is night, a wild black night, with a deluge of rain. I sit in the Cardinal's room with but one single flickering candle, hoping, almost against hope, that sleep may come upon my patient.

We have said the Rosary together, and afterwards the night prayers, and I have done all that I can think of to give him comfort, yet he is not at rest.

"Why is it I cannot sleep?" he presently asks. "It seemed to me I could scarcely keep awake to get into bed, and now, how restless and uncomfortable I am!"

"You have over-tired yourself," I answer. "Soon you will feel more restful; try to allow your mind to become a blank, while I change the pillows for these cooler ones here." "Is it so easy?" he says laughingly.

There is a short silence; he does his best, persistently keeping his eyes closed, but it is of

no use.

"The pain again," he explains rather wearily.

"Is it the pillows, do you think, that we have not ‘managed' so well as usual?"

"More likely my impatience; my child, how I must tax you! How fretful I become!"

"No, no," I hasten to say. "Little pagan, it cannot last much longer; we are nearing the end of our journey together. Do you not see it-now?"

"Eminence!"

"You do, yes I am sure you do; you cannot now say that you see no change."

"You are weaker much weaker, that I do admit." "You know I am dying." No answer.

"If our dear Lord would only call me to-night! Do you know that, somehow, I think He will. Come a little nearer to me and let us talk a little; it will not drive slumber away.' I take my chair to the side of his bed.

"Oh! my lord, you have so often spoken like this," I say at length helplessly. "Tell me you do but jest."

"It is not so now. Sometimes, I grant you, it has amused me to play with your fears, for you were ever so sensible, but now that time has gone. We have arrived at the goal."

I dare not trust my voice. His eyes meet mine; they are full of a wonderful light of kindly affection.

"Do you care so much?" he says. "You who of all people knew that it must be?"

I can no longer restrain my tears.

"My child, I have longed so much to go. The distress and pain have been at times so hard to bear, and, alas! your patient has but little courage, such a poor timorous one is he. Have you not again and again felt ashamed of him? My dear, my dear, it is all so true. How comes it

you have been so patient, that you have so kindly and generously borne with me?" "My lord?"

"I must say it-I earnestly plead your forgiveness: how sorely you have been tried!" "No! no! a thousand times

no!"

He silences me by a firm pressure of my hand. "You have all been too kind and good," he says.

"Oh, my lord, I cannot bear to think of it," I say brokenly.

"Courage, my faint-hearted one, courage. Perhaps you will go to the Missions after all," he says with a smile, though his eyes, too, are wet with tears. "You are still so young; you have your life yet before you. Long years of usefulness will be yours. You would be wise to spend your time quietly for awhile. Do not rush over matters. Let the future come gradually, softly, upon you, and it will shape itself. Our dear Lord will give you the grace to see the light. I think-yes, I feel sure that you will go. You will perhaps think of me at that time; you may remember your old friend's advice. And now, as the hour grows late, it is surely time for me to say one or two short prayers, and so to try and compose myself for sleep.

"Good night, my child. Little pagan, good night. God bless you."

And the Cardinal slept.

HAS there ever been quite so fine a cricket season from start to finish as that of 1911? Hardly, we fancy, within the memory of living men, certainly not within that of the active cricketer. This is a bold assertion, and we are quite prepared to believe that W. G. will take up his pen and by way of contradiction inform us that he is still to be reckoned with as an active cricketer, and that the cricket season of 1868 was quite as fine as that of 1911. But in the first place, W. G. is an abnormal personage alto gether, and we were thinking only of the normal; and in the second place, we happen to have a personal recollection of muddy wickets on Cowley Marsh in 1868, whereas the summer term of 1911 was dry from start to finish, the finest May term, so an old cricketing Don, some years senior to W. G. informed us, that he ever remembered. Fair wea

ther should produce fine play, and the general results of the season have amply justified the forecast of a prominent and enthusiastic cricketer, who in a letter written in April confidently announced that the Coronation Year would bring a boom in first-class cricket. From the bowlers' point of view, perhaps, there followed in due course almost too much pronounced a boom. All the more credit, then, to those hardly tried specialists that so

large a proportion of first-class matches were brought to a definite conclusion. Not till the arrival of the Scarborough festival, when the days are short and some of the sternness of the game is relaxed, was there anything like a series of drawn matches. And even at Scarborough no spectator was likely to leave the ground and grumble on the score that he had not received full value in the form of good cricket for his money.

The play has been of a more lively and spirited order. The season of 1910 brought with it a great improvement in that respect, and, thanks no doubt in some degree to the weather, there has been another marked advance in 1911. Plenty of runs have been made, perhaps too many. For when centuries are scored at the rate of between twenty and thirty aweek, and double centuries have become a matter of com

mon occurrence, runs may be said to be going too cheaply. But as a rule the runs have been made at a good round pace, and the order has evidently gone forth in the best County cricket that, come weal or come woe, the match must be finished. A few years ago, when, in an ordinarily fine summer, match after match was left drawn, the excuse was given that the wickets were too good, complaints on the subject of unfinished games