SKETCHES OF PLACES AND PERSONS. Adelaide Procter. By the Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J. Aubrey de Vere. By the same An Australian Child of Mary. By the Rev. Michael Watson, S. J. Aborigines of Australia. By the same An Australian Holiday. By the same Australian Exploration. By the same Beyond the Rhine. By Kathleen O'Meara 433 Relics of Richard Dalton Williams Relic of the O'Connell State Trials 195, 287, 327, 391 Sugan Earl of Desmond (The). By the Rev. Denis Murphy, S. J. State Trials of the Seventeenth Century. By John O'Hagan, Q. C. Tomb of Keats (The). By Oscar Wilde The Mystical Flora of St. Francis de Sales.—Poems by the Hon. Mrs. Knox. The Life of Our Life.-Solar Physics.-God's Chosen Festival.-The Illustrated The Eucharistic Year.-Irish and English Freemasons, and their Foreign Sir F. Doyle's Oxford Lectures on Poetry.-Rev. A. G. Knight's Columbus.- Father Maher's Memoirs and Letters.-Handbook of Essentials in History and The Homœopathic World.-Disputationes Theologica de Justitia et Jure. PAGE 297 354 407 593 Comets and Meteors.-The Rise and Fall of the Irish Franciscan Monasteries, Annie 719 Stanzas written in the Visitors' Book at Glengariff. By M. La T. A Meditation in a Crowd. By T. E. B. A Story of the Natural Bridge of Virginia. By J. P. Hugh Roe O'Donnell's Address to his Soldiers before the Battle of the Cur- Ποντος Ατρύγετος. By Oscar Wilde Winged Words 60, 240, 358, 416, 596 661, 722 d: THE IRISH MONTHLY. ROBIN REDBREAST'S VICTORY. BY KATHLEEN O'MEARA, AUTHOR OF "IZA'S STORY," "THOMAS GRANT, FIRST BISHOP OF SOUTHWARK," "BELLS OF THE SANCTUARY," &c. IT CHAPTER I. SHE IS SENT FOR. T was a loud, imperious ring, so unusually loud that the portress, in her startled hurry to answer it, dropped her knitting, and, as it turned out, several stitches too; she did not think of this, however; none but a messenger from a death-bed would ring like that; greater cares than even the precious knitting were in her helpful old heart. The messenger was a tall footman in a showy livery. He touched his hat to the sister. Even atheists yield an instinctive respect to such as she. They understand ladies leaving their neat and dainty homes to look after the suffering bodies of their fellow-creatures; there is sense in that. Rough, bad men like to be tended by pure and gentle women, and they approve of the fanaticism that prompts them to the service. With those other fanatics, who call themselves contemplatives, the case is different. They are fools or hypocrites, and have no right to exist. What help is it to men that Carmelites and Poor Clares should starve all the year round, and break their short sleep to rise and pray for sinners, and lacerate their innocent bodies with hair shirt and discipline? Sisters of Charity, and all who slave for the bodily alleviation of suffering humanity, are the only nuns whom the children of this world tolerate and understand. The gay flunkey in his plush leggings was unquestionably a child of this world. "Ma sœur, I have come for a nurse," he said, closing the door, and stepping aside out of the biting blast; "will you please send one at once? Madame will take her back in the carriage.' "If madame will take the trouble to walk in, I will fetch our Mother Superior to speak to her," said the portress. The flunkey sallied out into the blast again, and held a parley of some moments at the carriage door. The lady was evidently reluctant to alight, for the cold was intense, the ground was hard with a black frost, and the east-wind blew over it sharp as a razor. At last, holding her muff to her face with both hands, she cautiously descended the steps of her brougham, and then made a spring like a young antelope across the pavement into the convent hall. She was a very splendid-looking person, with shining black eyes and hair, and satin draperies that swept the polished floor like a court train; her complexion, preternaturally pink and white, struck the old portress as the most wonderfully beautiful thing she had ever seen, but it was a kind of beauty that scared her, as the beauty of death had sometimes done, only with less pathos. This splendid lady drew her velvet and sable mantle closer round her, and stood shivering in the warm hall, as if the light, passing breath of the cold outside had penetrated the very marrow of her bones. The portress showed her into the parlour, and hastened away to call the Mother Superior. In a few minutes the latter appeared. Alas! she had not a single sister left in the house-all were out on duty. Was the case a very pressing one? Yes; the lady declared it was. A gentleman had been thrown from his horse and received terrible injuries, a leg broken, and a wound in the right side. The leg had just been set, but the surgeons said this would be of no use unless the patient had a skilful and experienced nurse to attend him, and carry out their instructions; it was a case that required watching night and day. "Good mother! I entreat you, do something; invent a nurse if you have not got one !" the lady implored. The Superior thought for a moment. There was a nun in the community who was exactly the kind of person required, but she was occupied, and would not be home till the next day, perhaps the day after. "The only thing I can invent, madame, is to go and attend to the case myself until one of our sisters is free to take my place. It is against our rules; but in a case of this kind charity allows us to break them." The visitor was bursting out into thanks, when the portress came in and whispered something in the mother's ear. "Ah, thank God! This is fortunate!" she exclaimed. "The sister I meant to send you in a few days has unexpectedly returned, madame. If you will kindly wait a few minutes, she will be ready to accompany you. Meantime, will you let me have the name and address of the patient ?" "The Count de Bois-Ferré, Champs Elysées, No. 200 "The husband of madame, or her brother?" "Neither. He is a young, unmarried man, with no relatives in Paris; I am only a distant relation, but under the circumstances I devote myself as much as possible to him." A strange expression passed over the lady's face as she said this, but the room was dark, and she sat with her back to the light. The superior noticed nothing; and if the speaker's voice trembled a little, it was natural enough. "That is good of you, madame; your devotion will bring its own reward," she said, gently. Sister Theresa was a bright-faced, blue-eyed little creature, with a florid complexion, and the voice of a singing bird, that gave her a |
