THE HOMELIEST GIRL

New Zealand Tablet, 4 May 1911, Page 799

THE HOMELIEST GIRL

Carroll, Senior,, also meditated that night through many a cigar, and his thoughts were not of such a nature as to 'contribute much to his peace of mind. The surprise of his niece upon finding that his wife and the family were not of her faith opened his mind to reflections to which he had 1 been a stranger for many a year. Carroll'in his young days had been as devout as the average Catholic youth, had served on the altar, and had even aspired at one time to the priesthood. Thrown upon the world, however, to make his own living, he had been obliged to sacrifice whatever ambitions lie "had entertained. He was a self-made man, and in that fact more than in his great wealth did he take unto_ himself_ glory. Money came fast, and with it admission into society. He had met the wealthy Miss Dyer and had fallen deeply in love with her. In the days of fervent Catholicity Carroll would have scrupled at marrying one outside the faith, but Henry Carroll had long since gone beyond the bounds of strict Catholicity. He had 'ceased to frequent the Sacraments, appeared at Mass rarely, and it as suggested by some who were (over friendly with him that the reason* of his backsliding was his being mixed up in some dishonest deal. And so without any scruples of conscience Carroll had married the much, besuitored Miss Dyer. Stubborn in business ''was Carroll, stubborn in exacting what he believed to be his rights; but a strange commentary upon his stubborness, which makes one suspect that in the matter he was not so tenacious of his rights, his children were brought no strangers to the faith which had once been so ardently professed by their father. It was not to be expected, therefore,, that the very nonCatholic Mrs. Carroll would accept into her house with much grace a relation tainted with practical Catholicity. It was that defect as much as the unprepossessing appearance of Mary Downey that raised in the majority of the household the spirit of rebellion against the orphan, intensified a, hundred times on that Sunday when it was discovered that Mary had roup to Mass with Nora the conk. 'Tt is intolerable, Henry,' said Mrs. Carroll at the breakfast table. _ 'The idea of your niece going to Mass, and that, too, with one of the servants. How can vou allow it?' 'What, the going to Mass or the fact that she went with' the cook asked Carroll sarcastically. 'Both.' she answered. 'None of us are Catholics. Your children are not. allowed to go there. Why should you allow vonr niece?' ' Why . Because she believes it to be the right thing to do, no doubt. If mv own children do not so there, it that T have not wished them to go there' <m, We will not discuss that matter,' said the woman. 'That was decided long ago.' . v And the rest of the meal Mas passed in silence. 'Come, Mary,' said Carroll as the girl opened the door of her room to his knock, 'it is a glorious day for our trip. .You have had your breakfast?' \% Yes, uncle, very early. Nora and I had it together when we came from Mass.' I ' So -you went to Mass.' he said as he tucked the rob* about her in the seat at his side, and they went spinning along over the frozen land. '.Yes, sir. _ And what a lovely church! Thev didn't have any like it in our town, only just a plain brick one. Yours is all stone and has marble altars. It must he grand whop it. is all lighted v.-p and when the bio- oro-an plays., My, but there must be thousands and thousands of pines in it. _ It-must bo grand when : it plays, isn't it?' -; 'And didn't you lmar it?' she asked. ', Not that one. -But. of course. I have heard pipe organs.. You see, Mary,' he continued, as if -n explanation, of his defection, 'I am so tired on Sunday morning after working all the week, that it is pretty hard to get up and .to to Mass.' -e, * Big man as Carroll was, he chafed under the interrogation of the girl, but he could not find it in him to answer her j other than kindly. There were too many m his household already giving her unkind words and looks B"t unconsciously he rerldenod as he realised what a miserable excuse he had employed to cloak his irrelbdon i^v' And your wife—l mean Aunt Carroll—doesn't like Catholics, • does she?' said Mary when she perceived that the conversation was beginning to lag. 'You must not say that, Mary,' said the man. - ; ' But she tohl Nora this morning never to take me to Mass again. But you see. uncle. I had to go to church with some one, for I didn't know the wav alone. I can find it myself now. You see, it's just like this, uncle. '-Its a mortal sin to miss Mass, and anvway, mother made me 5 promise when she was dying that I would never stay away from Mass unless I was too sick to stand up She said my religion was dearer than—than all vour money—and she toy me not to be led astray when I came to live with vou.' , 0 /-7°" r motller told you Ave were dangerous people eh? said the man, breaking out into laughter. ' 'Not exactly that,' said the girl. "'She said that you were just the loveliest man, and that she knew I would with you. And we used to pray for you every night —for you to come back, mother used to say.'

■ -'To come back?' repeated the man. 'Come back where?' . - To her, I guess, because we were so poor.' 'Arid you did come back, didn't your ' Yes,' lie answered, but mechanically. ' And it was just because we said the prayers, wasn't it? Mother said that if you prayed long enough and hard enough you would get anything.' 'Do you believe that, dear?' asked the man suddenly, as if it were a new and strange doctrine. • ' Why, everybody knows that,' said the girl. 'God said so.' ' Then keep right on praying for me—for all of us, won't you?' ' Yes, sir. I've got a lot of prayers to say now —you see, it's so near to Christmasbut I'll keep a place for you. You were so good when no one else wanted me.' ' Nora,' she said that night when she slipped into the kitchen, ' what do you suppose my uncle wants me to pray for? He kind of jumped in the automobile when I told him I could get anything I prayed for. I bet it's something for Christmas.' ' Sure, child, and what does the man want when he has barrels of money?' said Nora. 'lf it's money can buy it. he can have what he wants without asking you to pray for it. He's the good man, and it's a shame'that that wife of his made him lose the faith.' ' - ' Do you suppose—' '■ But Mary suddenly stopped in the question that she was formulating. A new idea had flashed into her mind, and, as if she feared that Nora might be able to read it, she hurried from the kitchen and sought her room. Like a flash of light came to her mind the words of the priest at the morning Mass: 'lf a man lose his faith, he is the poorest of the poor.' And Uncle Carroll, then, in spite of all his money, must be the poorest of the poor, since lie had lost his faith. Her uncle had b«en kind to her, and now lie was in need of help. He did not go tn Mass; he had lost his faith. It was not money that could bring it bark hut only the grace of God. Now did she understand what her mother had ever meant when thev had prayed for him to come back. She was disliked by her aunt and "hv Evelyn and Henry because she was so homely. Was it not' possible that God would answer her prayer and make her,' if not as pretty as her cousin Evelyn, at least not so very dreadfully homely, as she knew herself to be? She was at Mass every morning, stealing out early lest she might bo found out and forbidden to go. It was a secret, and not even Uncle Carroll must guess it. "Rut Uncle Carroll almost guessed the secret Eae'l morning be heard the little feet stealing bv his door. On the second morning he looked out and saw her turning the corner in the direction of the church. It was but one of the trifles of life, but. trifles manv a time change the destiny of souls even as the destiny of the empires. ■ That Christmas morning, as the homeliest girl was feasting her soul upon the beautiful gifts M+ bv some unknown hand on the table near her bed, the man entered the room. ' Merry Christmas, Mary,' he said. 'Has Santa Claus come this way? 'Oh, uncle, it was you who gave me all these things T can see it in your eyes. It must have cost you more than live dollars.' Carroll laughed as he. thought of the hundred dollars he had spent, extravagantly, his wife had said, for the one gut of furs for the girl. 'Pretty nearly as much as that,' he said. 'l'm glad your prayers were answered, anyway. I hope vou %lid not nray for any more or I will he bankrupt. It's hard to keep up with one who prays like you.' I"" J And , the funniest thing, uncle. I didn't pray for one of these things,' said the girl . 'My!' said the man, with a twinkle m his eve, 'an! what did you pray for? Not a diamond necklace,' I hope ' the girl hesitated and blushed. 'I prayed for two things,' she said, 'but I didn't get them—that is, I didn't get them yet. I prayed for vou lobe good instead of bad, and I prayed for me'to be beautiful instead of homely.' £ The man laughed, but it was a laugh accompanied by 'And I am good,' he said, 'at least I'have come back and am going to try to be good. And you,' he continued Ami » bent to kiss her, are as beautiful as your mother And now it's time for us to go to Mass.' The eyes of the girl opened wide. ' I knew it would come true,' she said.— The Magnificat.