THE CHEERING OF FATHER LEIGH

New Zealand Tablet, 30 August 1906, Page 5

THE CHEERING OF FATHER LEIGH

mnTT a ?. Cr Le / &1 1 V uc ' v ' hims^ into an armchair for a SSf J rr ° SL ,b, b f for ? .parting forth again on the work of Ins ovcrciowded mission in Stepney 1 &un was b<lazing over the 1 dusty streets and ugly houses, revealing eveiy detail of squalor with hi " n < ;o . rn P r f OI ™ &1 "S S'aie, and beating down fiercely on the heads of the luckless toilers in the noonday heat It was a rare occurrence with him, despite his hard ! i4i i V- a f . an optimistic man, on the whole, with a healthy belief in human nature, which had suffered noth- ™? f° ? 1 ' f101 " dally contacfc wi^h evil, and all manner of sad experiences with the stunted souls of his 1111 oo 1(3X1 • Now, however, he had boen seized with a fit of gieat depression, for all this week had been spent in apparently fruitless endeavor. l He had been grossly deceived in two particular inwnri cS + h aild K th / CC T Cia l ]V bad ' cases ' had teome worse than bad ; and so to-day Father Leigh sat down Wcti'it.Th 1 ?"? 111011 WaS v 1S ° un » su al-with a trite cTneJSinShtly to "^ ' aUd factor F hands Pre- ' You may preach forever, and work as loner' he soliloquized gloomily, « but wbere are the fruits ?' The houscHbell rang vigorously at this point and gave him no time to answer his own question. 'Young woman wants to speak to you, Father ' #L he priest went down to the guest parlor with a resigned expression. A young girl, evidently a factory hand Dale md enS"nce cd ' WUh * VMy - *""** «Prelsioi? row at his . 'What can I do for you V asked Father Leiffh m his usual courteous tones. B ' i««i, The gi r" 1?s / a ? c was slowl y assuming a rapturous %*i taSUss^siffia." last the iiviiig •"*&■»»'

Her words, when she spoke, were not, however, exactly transcendent. _ 'Oh, my!' she ejaculated, ' I'ffc been that loneing to sec yer this twelve month !' Father Leigh waited— weanly. ' After hearin' of you preach, you know, so often in fc> she went on in explanation. 'I've never heard anythin' like them sermons— mother and I— and heard you was on the mission heie, I was set on comin' to see you if I could find a minit, for as well as jest the pleasure of hearin' yer agin, 1 want to git your heln for somethin'.' " ' I shall be very glad to help you if I possibly can,' answered Father Leigh. The girl paused to recollect her thoughts and then launched into a wordy explanation. There was, it seemed, in her neighborhood a branch of a Letter Guild, which had for its object the epistolary correspondence of its Catholic members one with another on philanthropic gioumis. Many sad and lonely lives were brightened by this means of intercourse with sympathetic, though unknown friends from, perhaps, far away. ' This girl, Carrie Greene, was a zealous member of this Guild, and despite her uncouth speech, had a certain happy knack of expressing herself in a bright and amusing way on paper. She had got into a very intimate correspondence with a girl in London in veiy bad health and terribly reduced circumstanceb— a lady by -birth and education, who had taken a fancy to the quaintness and originality of Canie's cheery epistles, ami had formed quite a friendship with the factory girl she bad never seen, but whom she seemed to know so well through the medium of the Catholic Letter Guild which had ib'rought them together, by post at least. The giil, Carrie staled, was in a state of complete prostration lesulting from ovenvork. She was an apprentice in some dressmaking nun, and although very ill aitcl at starvation pointy was too proud to communicate with hor relations and let them knoAV her circumstances, for she had quarrelled with them some yeais pievioubly, and the breach had ncvei been healed. She had been to blame, Carrie gathered, and not her family. They had attempted many times to bring about a reconciliation, but she had in wilful pride piefeiml to sink to her piesent condition of poverty and loneliness lather than acknowledge herself to be uiong;. Her nearest ielali\e was a biother, who was untmng in 'his cffoits to discover her whereabouts and and induce her to live with him again in her own position in life, but so far she had successfully evaded all his endeavors. A shadow crossed the priest's face as he heard Came tell her stoiy. It reminded him lather painfully of a dark episode in his own hie wlnn Ins favonte sister had left her home in a fit of" maid folly, an*l hcen lost to those who loved her [en five yea is now, or more. Fath»r L<>ij;h had never succeeded in tracing her and had now hmsoi: feu bokiving her to be dead,' after a sta^ caieer of gieat haulship amd no success . The memory was a bitter one, and he felt keenly for tame Green's pool, foolibh fiiend, who had be•haved in a siniihu manner. 'You want me to see her and try to do something for hci, 1 suppose' 1 he asked. 'Yes, Fathei,' said the gill eagerly. 'You could do er 'caps of good. She's forever rcadin 1 of your sermons, >ou see, and seems to think a lot of 'em But you must go before she goes to the seaside She s going for a change o' air. The doctor said it was er only chance o' gittin' strong agin.' ' Can she aftord to go ? ' asked Father Leigh It's been managed,' answeied Carrie Vaguely 1 But how '> ' asked the priest. ' Oh, through a pal,' said Cariie, with a hot color rising in her cheeks. Father Leigh's suspicions were aroused. ' I believe you arc the pal,' he said, but only half believing his own words, Carrie stood silent, and looked exceedingly uncomfortable. ' 1 Do tell me,' he said, with rising hope. 'Are you?' 'It was your last sermon at S ,' pleaded Carrie in charming, self-defence. '"About self-sacrifice you know; so mother and I t nought we'd give 'er a week or so at the sea, pore thing. 1 (/ But honv can you possibly affond to ? ' , asked leather Leigih, with a q-ueer expression in bis eyes. tit ' P h> we ' d got a b-1t sayo < 1 up against our trip to Margate, sai-d Carrie airily, ' and it. jest came in. handy. She wants a change moie'n we do, and you said in your sermon as we ought to put the neods of others afore our own, you know-

Father Leigh turned away rather abruptly, and walked over to the window. 1 So you will have no holiday at all,' he said. ' That don't niattei,' rejoined Carrie, her thin, overworked, stooping frame belying her words, however. 'It don't matter a bit. Wed rather she went, but look 'ere— doii't you let on, Father. She don't know ■who s -doin' it, or &he wouldn't go. Don't co and tell her. ' 'I won't tell her, 1 said Father bei^h, and his face was vjery bright and the sad expression had vanished. ' I -wen t tell her, my child, and God Himself will reward your generosity. I will go to your friend at once.' ' Lor' ! she ain't exactly my friend,' remarked Came ; ' she's a swell, you &cc ; and as for generosity—why, it's nothin 1 at all o' the kind. But you're lookHn' as pleased as if I'd given yer a pound Father ! Reg'lar cheered up.' ' I am,' he answered, as he shook her hand in farewell. * An hour later saw him entering the miserable lodging of Carrie's sick piotege. She lay on a couch near the window, but when she caught sight of the priest she started violently and. turned her face to the shadows. 'I have not startled you, I hope?' asked Father Leigh. ' I heard of your illness from a friend, and thought I ' Fie broke of! suddenly, his attention arrested by something unusual in the invalid's manner, something familiar in her attitude. With locating heart and a wild fancy surging in his brain he approached nearer to the couch, and looked down on the prostrate foim. Then an exclamation of frantic wonder and delight broke from him. ' Margaret ' It, can't be ? Good heavens—yes— yes —it is— Margaret ' ' His sister sobjbed silently in reply, and the happiness of Father Leigh ars he knelt by her side'seemed almost too great to bfar. Father Leigh is no longer disheartened when he thinks of factoiy hands— but ot one of them— pale, thin-cheeked Canic— he thinks with moistened eye and he speaks with bated biealh. And no wonder !—'Messenger of the Sacred Heait.'

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