about the unfortunate Duchesse de St. André. My aunt found out in some way that she was engaged to the Wynville who succeeded to the title and estates of the Earldom of Ware, and that she threw him over when he was plain Captain Wynville to marry the rich Duc. She left the Duc twice after their marriage, the last time to embark for England from Cape Town, when she was shipwrecked. Morgan, the Anglican clergyman we met in Egypt, was lost on the same steamer. My aunt declares the Duchesse was on her way to the States to try and get a divorce and marry the Earl, though I doubt if he would have had her."

"It seems impossible," said Philip.

"I wouldn't commit myself to an opinion," said Ewing. "She was a strange woman, though. I met the Duc in London six weeks ago. He was in deep mourning, and looked like one. who carries around an abiding sorrow."

"That was indeed a terrible shipwreck," said Philip. "Those who were picked up in one of the boats say that Morgan behaved splendidly; and the outline of his sermon, preached the Sunday before he was lost, was given by one of the passengers, and published in all the papers. My uncle sent me a copy of the "Times" that gave the sermon nearly in full. One of the men had taken it down in shorthand, and he found the notes in the pocket of a coat he had hurriedly slipped on, after he was rescued. It was strange about the Duchesse," he added, thoughtfully. "The Duc knew she was on board, as she left a note telling him so before she sailed; but she seems to have gone under an assumed name. The steamship office produced a list of the passengers, and 'Mrs. Black and maid,' was her entry." "Black, indeed!" answered Ewing. "If I am to believe my aunt, she was as unprincipled as she was beautiful."

The two young men had reached the Mount Nelson by this time, where they

dined together, after which Philip told his friend all about the Van Wonters, and as much of his own African experience as could be compressed into an hour's talk.

"I must go to see them this evening," he wound up. "Come with me, Ewing. You can talk to the daughter while I see the father."

To which the young sailor agreed, and his knowledge of French being as thorough as Philip's, he spent what was to him a delightful evening with Franzje, only leaving in time to take the last boat for his ship..

Into the next week was crowded all the sight-seeing and trips into the country that the two friends could arrange; and by common consent Franzje Van Wonter accompanied them-her father, who was very busy, being only too glad to have her so pleasantly employed.

Any bitterness the old Boer may have felt at Philip's escape had been entirely obliterated by the young Englishman's kindness to his lost son. As to Franzje, never before in her life had she had such a time or been so happy.

"I believe Ewing is really struck by her," thought Philip, watching them. "She is as good as she is beautiful, and if she could be persuaded to leave her veldt she would make him a charming wife, especially if he could convert her, which, if she loves him, might be easy. She is the stuff to say 'Whither thou goest, I will go,' and 'Thy people shall be my people.'

Philip's mind ran in different channels, tending most to the thought of Natalie. What news it had been, and how he longed to reach England and see her and Father Basil. He scarcely dared admit, even to himself, how deeply he loved the young English girl who had emerged so splendidly from out her trial of faith. How wise Father Basil had been!

The day came when Philip went on board his steamer. Ewing was not to

C

APPOQUIN lay at the foot of the hills, in the valley of the Blackwater. The Trappist monastery was up in the heights-tucked away in the very heart of the Knockmeldowns. But the Waterford horse thought nothing of the climb, and the jaunting-car swung along the mountain road as if there was no such thing as an angle of forty-five degrees.

At first the hillside was thickly wooded. In the shadow of the trees the banks were bright with dog-violets and early primroses. Then the foliage gave place to brown-green bracken, lit up by broad splashes of yellow gorse. Above, the rugged mountains raised their heads -those great barren hills of Waterford. Below lay the plains, fertile and rich. As far as the eye could reach, they

stretched out to the horizon, rising and falling like the billows of the sea.

It was more than an hour's drive from Cappoquin, and as we climbed higher and higher, the jarvey talked. There was a frankness of speech about the mountain jarvey-a freedom, coupled with a sense of deference, which is only to be found in the Green Isle. More than that, he spoke well. In the course of conversation he referred to the yearly exodus which is draining Ireland of its young blood. There was not enough employment at home. He had two brothers in the States, he said. Both had prospered. They wished him to join them. But, he raised his head and his eye swept the mountain-"Tis hard to leave it," he said; "and the old people would be lonesome." His re

"Is the land good about here?" I asked.

"Tis yonder," said he, and with his whip he pointed to the plains. "The mountain land is poor. 'Tis nothing but stones and gorse. No one could cultivate it if 'twasn't the monks."

"But if they can, why not you?" I asked.

"Well, you see," was the reply, "the monks has but themselves to think about. They works hard and lives hard. No man with a wife and family could live on it, what wid clearin' it and fertilizin' it. 'Tis land that can't be left, for soon the gorse would grow again. Before the monks come, some seventy years ago, the abbey lands was like. them barren slopes-just stones and bracken and gorse. Ah! 'tis poor land," said the jarvey. So we drove up and up, and not even a mountain cabin broke the solitude. From time to time a lark would wing his flight into the upper air and pour out his song in the blue. It seemed as if the versicle of the psalm had been set to music: "He that stretcheth out the heavens as nothing, and spreadeth them out as a tent to dwell in. * '* * Blessed is He," sang the lark. And as one listened, the voice of the bird thrilled with a living joy, while the sound floated away in the clear ether. Then the road gave a sharp turn, and in the far distance, as if keeping guard over the lonely places, rose a church spire.

"Get thee up into a high mountain, thou that bringest good tidings to Jerusalem," wrote the Prophet Isaiah.

"Lift it up, fear not. Say to the cities of Juda: Behold your God." So the church tower of Mount Melleray gives testimony to the Deity, while the listening hills stand in silent worship, and the spirit of God seems to rest over all. Then the hills closed in again and the church spire was lost to view.

"I suppose the abbey has opened up the country?"

"It has," answered the man. "All the year round, the people do be comin' to visit it. They comes from every part of Ireland, and many a one from far countries. In summer the cars are runnin' all day. Each horse makes the journey four times."

"And taking the distance at 'a mile and a bit but perhaps," I added, "one ought to put the mile in the middle and the bit at each end?"

The jarvey gave a quick glance from under his hat and laughed softly. "Divil a bit, Miss," said he, "tis four miles, Irish, each way."

"And in English?" I asked.

"Mebbe six or seven. But, by the same token," he said, "that horse there do be as fresh at the end of the day as when he started out."

Like every other Irishman, the jarvey loved his horse. So from that we diverged into sporting intelligence: the Punchestown results; last week's entries at Leopardstown; the successive winners of the English Grand National -the mountain jarvey knew all about them. And as he spoke, he instinctively took a shorter grip of the reins, and the Waterford horse, sharing his mood, flung out his feet with renewed vigor. Then the jehu turned to me.

"If it isn't makin' too bold, Miss," said he, "an' how long will ye be stayin' at the abbey?"

"Two days," I answered.

"Ye wudn't be stayin' a week now?" was the tentative suggestion. From his solicitude, he evidently thought his fare

needed some spiritual leavening. But I shook my head.

"Ah, then, 'tis the eleven o'clock train. ye'll be wantin', an' 'tis mesilf as'll be proud to drive ye back," for by this time the jarvey knew that I belonged to the land, even though I was seeing it for the first time. Being a fellow Celt made a great difference on an outside car; I was addressed by name, as if I'd grown up under his eye.

A few dwellings now appeared in sight, and before a trim cottage we drew rein. Here the jarvey descended, laid hands on my luggage and disappeared through the doorway. I tried to view this from an impersonal standpoint, failing which, I had decided to follow my belongings when the driver reappeared and, remounting the car, he proceeded.

"What did you do with my luggage?" I asked.

"Shure an' isn't that the guesthouse?" was his reply.

"But if that is the guest-house—” I began.

"Ah, now," said the man, "an' isn't there another one fornent the abbey; an' 'tis there I'll be takin' ye this minute."

The explanation was not illuminating. It was of the kind I was always meeting with in Ireland. It made me feel as if I had pulled up at a high stone wall. There was no getting beyond it. So I gripped the sides of the car-and thereby just escaped being jolted offas we whisked round the corner. Inside the abbey gates there was a long building where the secular students lodged, after passing which we spun over the private grounds of the abbey for the next mile and a half. Close to the monastery rose the seminary, or college block, round which we drove into a sort of open courtway where a brownfrocked lay-brother awaited our arrival. On learning from the jarvey the amount of the fare, I was not surprised that the people emigrated. It had been

a stiff drive of more than an hour, an uphill climb, for which the charge was one shilling! An additional sixpence was the perquisite of the jarvey, and when I gave him a shilling he raised his hat in acknowledgment.

Never having visited a Trappist monastery before, I felt a little uncertain how to proceed, though the sight of the kindly brother standing on the steps was reassuring. On the previous day my father had written to say that I had a relative in the abbey whom I was to be sure and ask for. Accordingly I alighted from the car, offered my card to the brother, and enquired if my relative was at home. Then it occurred to me that perhaps a Trappist monk never was "at home" this side of the grave, where like the Israelites he waited, staff in hand, to cross over into that land of promise for which Mount Melleray is but the preparation. However that might be, my kinsman was not forthcoming.

"Is he living or dead?" asked the brother.

This enquiry was somewhat disconcerting, the more so as I was entirely ignorant of his name.

"Well," was my cautious reply, "I hope he is alive, but candidly, Brother, I have recently been introduced to a succession of dead men."

At this point I found myself involved in an explanation. It was my first visit to Ireland. My information came from my father, who had left the old country fifty years ago when he was a boy. And though there were many facts to remind him of the march of time-of which I myself was one-still he refused to believe that the former generation had moved on. "Go and see your cousin," was the injunction which I received every other week. Accordingly I trav-. elled over Ireland, ringing bells and enquiring for the non-existent. With the best intentions in the world, no one could ever locate these mysterious rel