bending over her trying to revive her. The open door, while affording escape, became the means of feeding the fire. The flames rushed up from the kitchen where they had begun; caught hold of everything inflammable--woodwork, curtains, flooring, furniture. Soon they reached the staircase, and were seen flickering about the windows of the first story. The house was ablaze in almost less time than it takes to describe it. There was a lurid ghastly light in the street; it dimmed the gas; it quivered and danced in the face of the crowd; it lit up the thoroughfare, making everything look a murky red and showing the firemen moving like phantoms about the flames. Every now and then a shower of sparks and embers fell into the space which the police had kept clear in front of the house; and a thick cloud of smoke hung over all.

Dennis saw little of all this; he was busy with himself, and only cared to make his way through the crowd and get home. He was nearing the place where the woman lay on the pavement, when she revived, and starting up, shrieked out, "O Molly, Molly! Save her-she's in the top room!" Dennis staggered. "She's not my Molly," he said to himself, almost aloud, "but I'll save her;" and dashing forward he seized hold of the fire escape which had just come up, and ascended. The hot glass shivered in pieces as he passed the first floor, and the flames darted out at him like serpents, but still he sped on and reached the top story. Then, breaking a pane with his elbow, he pulled back the hasp, and lifting the sash sprang into the empty room. There was a silence in the crowd, broken only by the crackling of the timber and the hissing of the water as the firemen kept on at their work. Every eye followed Dennis. When he had disappeared through the window the cry was raised: "The escape is on fire!" The ladder was lowered, and it was found that not only had the canvas caught alight, but part of the ladder itself was damaged so as to make it unsafe; an axe was brought, and a portion, several feet in length, had to be cut off. A message was sent directly for another escape.

Soon Dennis reappeared at the window with a child in his arms. Seeing that the escape was not there, he set the

child down, and, rushing back to the room from which he had taken her, tore the sheets from the bed; then, twisting the sheets into a rope, he knotted them together firmly, and tied one end under the arms of the child. Meanwhile the escape had been set up again, sufficiently far from the fire, and held by several men. A fireman mounted, and Dennis, letting the child down by the sheets quickly, swung her safely into the fireman's arms.

The child was saved; but Dennis, what was he to do? The sheets were gone, and if he had had them they would not have been of any use, for the room was quite empty, and there was nothing to which to tie them. The stair-case was destroyed, and already the room was filling with smoke; the door-posts were alight, the door crackled and splintered, and would soon give way. The ladder was still being held straight some little distance of, but much lower than the window where Dennis was. Some one in the crowd recognized him. "Leap it, Dennis! The fireman shouted, "No, no, stop; another is coming," but it was too late. Dennis had taken the fatal advice. He sprang from the window-sill towards the ladder, hoping to cling to it and so come gently to the ground. But he had ill-judged the leap, or his foot had slipped, and he fell on his chest across the wheel of the escape, and thence to the ground.

Some of the crowd came forward and carried him a little way aside, out of danger from the burning house. He was in great pain. He could only breathe by gasps, and each gasp was an agony. One of the bystanders folded a coat and put it under his head; another proposed that he should be taken for awhile to his house, which was close by; but they dare not move him again. Water was brought and his lips moistened, but the effect to raise himself a little to drink was too painful. Some one was going off for assistance, when Dennis said quietly, "Fetch the priest."

He lay there suffering intensely, gasping and moaning, his eyes closed, his lips moving between the groans. After a while the priest came, and approached the injured man. Those beside him withdrew; the policeman called upon the crowd to fall back, and himself stood out of hearing.

Father Syme saw that there was no time to lose. Quickly and warmly the story was told of the Saviour's love; of the Cross borne and suffered for sinners; of Magdalen and the good thief saved through love; of Mary and the Saints pleading for sinners. Quickly and warmly the dying man was urged to sorrow, hope, love. And the words of grace fell on good soil. In a few minutes the crimes of years had been told and wept over, the priestly hand uplifted, the prodigal son received into his Father's arms, clothed with the robe of grace, the ring of love on his finger, and the shoes of merit on his feet.

The few Catholics in the crowd drew near and knelt; the man who had given the fatal advice to Dennis said the Confiteor, and the priest, drawing from his pocket a case, spread the little white corporal, and placed upon it the pyx. Then, taking the Most Holy, he gave Dennis the Food which was to be his strength and support through the long journey he was soon to take. As the Sacred Host was placed on his tongue a happy smile was on his lips; and his face, growing every moment paler and more drawn, was lit up with an expression which no one could ever have seen on it before. The Anointing followed, and the last Blessing; and there, amid the destruction of what was earthly, near the raging flames, with the black smoke overhead, the crash and fall of ruins close by, and an occasional shower of sparks around and among the kneeling group; there, with the prayers and ceremonies and Sacraments of Holy Church, Dennis was preparing, and preparing well, for eternity.

The doctor, who had now arrived, did what he could to relieve, if only a little, the terrible pain. To some who proposed that Dennis should be sent to the hospital he answered, "The poor fellow has but a short time to live; to move him would cause fresh suffering. Already, harm enough has been done by carrying him here." So Dennis lay there and lingered, praying and moaning. Some one whispered in the priest's ear, but Dennis caught the words.

"No, no! don't bring her," he cried in reply; "not herepoor Mary!" Then, turning to the priest, he said in broken

sentences, between the gasps, "You'll break it to her, Father? Tell her I asked forgiveness. Tell her I love her now— with the old love-as I loved her-before drink-" and the rest was lost in a faint moan. The end came quickly after that, and, with the Holy Name upon his lips, Dennis Connor passed away.

But Molly's prayer had been heard, and God had been pleased, in His own way, to "make father good."

RAIN, rain, nothing but rain from the murky sky above, nothing but slush and filth beneath, and nothing but busy pushing people all around. The air was full of the clamour and roar of the great city; everything and everybody seemed cold and pitiless and in a hurry; everybody, except a child who stood on the kerb-stone, and watching the surging rumbling crowd that rolled past him.

It was a child with fair and delicate limbs that would have made the joy of many a mother's heart and the light of many a childless home, but he stood now, ragged and dirty and barefoot on the edge of the pavement, so friendless and homeless that I could not tell you where he had come from, nor where he was going to, for I doubt whether he knew himself.

He did not look frightened or bewildered at his loneliness, though why he did not, it is hard to say: perhaps he was aware of what no one else could see, of the white shining angel who stood beside him with stainless outspread wings unruffled by the crush of the thronging crowd, and tender hands open to guard and direct him. However that may be, there was a fearless promptitude in the way in which he scrambled from off the high pavement, down into the gutter, and set off in a direct line straight across