Thomas MacClarren and his white pony failed to appear. Heads were shaken dubiously and tongues wagged wildly. François, who had always hated "ce vieux MacClarren," was inwardly delighted with the new turn of affairs. Could it be possible that the old guardian would never return to the presbytère? All Sunday long he hugged the thought to his jealous heart, and, finally, on Monday morning, convinced of his probability, vowed six candles to Sainte Anne de Beaupré. A household errand at Coutourière's shop took him at noon past Duchesne's house.

The doctor's planche and chestnut gelding stood before the door; the horse's golden coat gleamed with much brushing, the harness and trap were spotless. Looking through the shop window François saw the doctor busily placing bottles and packages in the little black bag which was his badge of office. He paused a moment, hesitating to interrupt and still unwilling to pass by without a word.

The doctor bustled out of his shop, smiling and genial. "Bon jour, bon jour," he said. He seemed to be in the best of humors.

"You are in a great hurry, Monsieur le Docteur?" asked François apologetically.

"That is it, my friend," returned the doctor, as he placed his bag under the seat of the planche and took the reins from his son's hands. "I have just had news that Monsieur le Gardien is ill, the result of a cold caught in last Saturday's storm. He has sent for me, and I must lose no time. A fluxion de poitrine, when one is no longer young, is serious."

He jerked the reins, and the young horse, so encouraged, trotted briskly up the village street.

Old François shaded his weak eyes with one hand and looked for a moment after the dust-enveloped vehicle.

"Dame," he murmured, as he hob bled on to Coutourière's shop, "why does Monsieur le Docteur occupy himself with such matters? Can he not see it is a judgment of God?"

François, however, was unprepared for the manner in which the Curé received the news. Bubbling over with

excitement he tip-toed into the study, where the Curé was reading his mid-day office, and coughed tentatively. The old priest looked up from his breviary. "Eh bien François," he said, "what is it?"

François smiled happily. "Monsieur le Gardien has a fluxion de poitrine," he answered. "Doctor Duchesne has just left for Baie des Rochers."

"What dost thou tell me?" said the Curé, sitting up very straight, his face lined with sudden anxiety.

"I said," repeated François, "that Monsieur le Gardien has a fluxion de poitrine; he moves not from his bed; the storm last week was too much for him, after all!"

The old priest closed his breviary with a snap and rose to his feet. "François," he said excitedly, "harness Coq at once; we drive to Baie des Rochers."

"But, Monsieur," exclaimed François, "consider! It is eight miles to Baie des Rochers. Monsieur has had no dinner! Coq has had no oats."

The Curé snapped his long fingers. François had never seen him so roused. "Discuss not," he said; "do as thou art told.'

The old servant hurried away, shaking his head and muttering, "Bonne Sainte Anne priez pour nous! It is as I said, the heretic has bewitched him."

Thus it happened that half an hour after the doctor's shining planche and sleek horse had mounted the steep hill leading to the main road, the Curé's much humbler calêche and pony toiled up the same rutty track.

The Curé sat well forward on the hard cushions, his head thrust forward, a clenched hand on each knee, his usually calm brow furrowed with anxiety. François from his narrow driver's perch tugged at the reins, and the little bay horse, with lowered head and taut muscles, dug his hoofs firmly into the rough road.

On an ordinary occasion the view of the surrounding country, the broad rippling St. Lawrence, the bold cliffs, the rolling hills, would have charmed Monsieur le Ferrière, for he was a man peculiarly sensitive to the beauties of nature, but to-day his heart was so full of the

desire to reach the little settlement at Baie des Rochers that he saw nothing beyond the pattern of the oil-cloth on the bottom of the calêche and François' jolting, gray shoulders.

The red calêche bumped along the rutty highway, past farm-house, stream and wood, up and down hills; and the Curé, in his worn soutane, his old straw hat pushed back from his forehead, complained of the slowness of the pace. "Coq is growing old," he exclaimed impatiently.

François glanced reproachfully over his shoulder. Young or old," he said loyally, "there is not a horse of such talent in the whole parish."

At last they reached Alfredes Harvey's farm, from which point the traveler gets his first glimpse of Baie des Rochers; a long, low peninsula running out into the St. Lawrence, a hundred feet below the main road, on the cliffs. A tiny river on the left forms a rocky miniature harbor, guarded from the northern wind by a bold jutting promontory. Waving willows surround the MacClarren homestead, a white, rambling building, with moss grown roof; while close, as if for needed support, crowd the newer houses of sons and grandsons. Far to the right, in the midst of green fields, fronting the broad river and the sunrise, stands the little wooden kirk, the only Protestant place of worship in the wide parish of St. Fidèle.

Duchesne had fared forth that morning with colors flying to meet ignominious shipwreck. Stripped of his pride, he clung to his professional dignity like a drowning sailor to a splintered spar.

"Monsieur le Curé," he said, pompously, "I assure you there is no danger. Your friend has without doubt been imprudent and he is not young. You will find him perhaps in a bad humor, but with care he will soon be well."

The Curé gave a gasp of relief, and lifting his soutane with either hand, sped down the road. He hardly stopped to return the greeting of MacClarren's unmarried daughter, who in neat black and mob cap, stood on the threshold of the old Scotchman's house. He pushed past her and burst into the little sitting room, which was MacClarren's particular domain. The long narrow room with its bright red carpet, its badly framed engravings of Knox and Burns, its rough bookcase's motley array of cheap bindings, was familiar ground to the Curé. Here he had spent many a controversial evening when parochial or fishing expeditions had led him far from St. Fidèle. The door of the little adjoining bedroom was closed; he pushed it gently until it swung open on its worn hinges and stepped across the threshold.

In his wooden bed, propped among the pillows, his faded plaid across his knees, lay old Thomas MacClarren, breathing hoarsely. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes flashing.

"Thomas," pleaded the Curé, as he stood at the foot of the bed, "art thou still angry?"

Old MacClarren pushed back the white hair from his forehead with trembling eager hands. His voice was petulant. Seigneur," he exclaimed, "am I to have no peace; first that rascal Duchesne, and now thee. A sick man needs rest."

But the Curé was not to be rebuffed. "Art thou still angry?" he persisted.

of light from behind the big rock at the foot of the falls? 'Six pounds 'we said when we saw him, the biggest trout in the Bon Desir. Dost thou remember how he ran out my line, how my rod bent?" Then suddenly the light went out of the old man's eyes, his mouth shut with a snap. "Jean, Jean," he muttered with an almost tragic break in his voice, "I thought thee a fisherman, but a schoolboy could have handled the net better !"

For a moment the Curé was silent; his hands behind his back clenched and unclenched. He was eager for peace, but the irascible guardian was pressing him hard. "I did my best," he said finally in dangerously even tones. "I warned thee it was an impossible place to land a half played fish, besides the casting line was weak."

"Half played fish," retorted MacClarren sharply, raising himself in the bed, "the trout was gasping and on its side. Why not admit it was all thy fault?"

The Curé's eyes flashed fire. "Because it was not," he said shortly.

The two old men glared at each other. There was no sound in the little room beyond the Scotchman's labored breathing and the ticking of the eight-day clock. Then without a word the Curé shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heel. The quick angry movement swept his swaying soutane into a dusty corner and brought a fishing-rod clattering to the floor. The Curé frowned as he stooped down, his fingers closed on the familiar canvas cover. Old MacClarren from his pillows watched him eagerly. The priest straightened himself slowly, his face cleared, and a smile stole into his eyes. The Curé had sacrificed his pride to his affection. He turned to the bed and held the canvas-covered rod towards MacClarren.

"There are too many memories here, Thomas," he said, "days of sunshine. and cloud, of good luck and bad, of rippling water and green swaying trees. Thou art right. I was clumsy. I did lose the fish."

This was unlooked-for surrender. MacClarren gave a little gasp of shamed surprise. "A man must sometimes speak his mind," he muttered awkwardly.

"Come, Thomas," continued the Curé, "have you not punished me enough. I have been very lonely."

The Scotchman hesitated. "It is true I was angry with thee," he said slowly, "and said perhaps too much, but is that a reason that thou shouldst turn thy back on me and close thy door in my face?"

"I turn my back on thee! I close my door in thy face!" exclaimed the Curé.

MacClarren gave a bitter little laugh, the slight had cut deeper than he was willing to admit. "My eyes may miss a weak place in a casting line," he said, "but I am not yet blind. A week ago Saturday," he continued, "when I passed the presbytère eager to see thee, to talk matters over, thou wert in the garden, but as I rode up the street Lavoie from the doorway warned thee of my coming and I saw thee turn and walk into thy house."

"A week ago Saturday 1" mused the priest, "I was in the garden!" Then his lined face became gravely tender. "I remember," he said gently. No, Thomas, Lavoie did not tell me of thy coming but of Elizabeth Tremblay's going. How could I take pleasure in the flowers when one of my children had gone on her last journey and I had not given her the Bon Dieu. I went to my books because my heart was heavy. No Thomas, I did not see thee. All morning long I waited for thee, and when François told me thou hadst ridden by I could not understand. To quarrel for the sake of a few angry words was not like thee."

MacClarren's face was a curious mixture of embarrassment and happiness. "We Scotchmen are obstinate fools," he muttered, and then irrelevantly and with evident effort, "perhaps I did hurry the fish."

The Curé's faded eyes brimmed with laughter. "Obstinate fools make good friends," he said softly, stretching out a hand. MacClarren caught it eagerly.

"The salmon are running," exclaimed the priest, "and we have wasted more than a week! Quelle bêtise !”

MacClarren's laugh ended in a paroxysm of coughing. The old man bent

almost double, his face grew crimson and beads of perspiration stood out on his white forehead.

Curé's eyes.

A line of worry showed between the "Thou art feverish," he spoke anxiously, "I like not thy cough! What did Duchesne say to thee?"

The sick man lay back among his pillows, his breath was short. "Duchesne is a pompous fool," he said. "I myself could have told my daughter that I have a cold, that I am old, that I must be careful."

"Is that all he said?" persisted the Curé. He was labored by the old Scotchman's labored breathing.

"If thou must know," said MacClarren shortly, his eyes snapping, "he had the impudence to sympathize with me; he thought thee responsible for my illness; I should not, he said, have ridden from St. Fidèle in the storm and if the presbytère was, as he feared, closed to me, he begged that hereafter I consider his house and stable as my own."

T

"What didst thou say?" asked the Curé, boyishly eager, knitting his white, overhanging brows.

MacClarren shook his head, his lips beneath his white beard curled humorously. "Jean, mon ami," he said, touching the Curé's black sleeve affectionately, "I will not tell thee. I do not love the doctor and perhaps I was not quite myself, for I too have been lonely. One thing I know, a good Presbyterian should not have said it and a priest of the true church may not hear it !"

The two old men looked into each other's eyes, the memory of the past days was blotted out; they threw back their heads and laughed like children.

François sitting outside in the red calêche, watching old Coq crop a belated dinner, shook his head as he heard the laughter.

Bewitched," he said, "bewitched." He crossed himself hurriedly and glared at the little brown kirk just visible beyond the waving tree tops.

HE traditional stage Irishman is a ridiculous figure. Yet he seems to have established the present general estimate of his race. He certainly does not remind us of those austere pioneers who kept alive the spark of Christianity in Ireland and who kept art and learning from being overborne by the blight which had settled over the rest of Europe. Nor, coming to our own time, does "Paddy" recall the great soldiers and statesmen with whom Ireland has strengthened the British Empire. The accepted Irish type of the masses may be amusing, but he smacks also of indolence, thriftlessness, a tendency to drink, and even a lack of certain primary virtues.

Fortunately, these failings are not characteristic of the Irish people as a whole. In every quarter of the globe Irish men and women have shown themselves hard workers; if they have not displayed the same energy at home it is

The Outlook in Ireland. By the Right Honorable the Earl of Dunraven, K.P. E. P. Dutton & Co., New York. $3, net.

because of the general agricultural oppression and depression, because of unsanitary dwellings and insufficient food. As to drink, contrary to the gen eral supposition, the Irishman spends a less average on it than does the Englishman or Scot; moreover, the Irishman spends more on beer than on spirits, the contrary being true of the Scot. Furthermore, and even more surprising to many, statistics show the Irish to be less criminally inclined than are the inhabitants of Great Britain; in particular, as to sexual morality, the stranger in Ireland is invariably surprised by the rectitude of the people.

In 1841 Ireland's population was estimated at 8,100,000; in 1901, at 4,400,00. Thus, in sixty years the population fell by nearly four millions. America has won what Ireland has lost. But this is not all. Quality as well as quantity is involved. The emigrants have generally been in life's full vigor; most of those who have remained have been physically, mentally, and industrially deficient. Meanwhile, the burden

of taxation has enormously increased. Is it surprising, then, that, with the exception of France, Ireland's birth-rate. should be now the lowest in the world?

Unless remedial measures are undertaken Ireland must continue downward. It is true that two noble laws, passed within a decade, have brought reliefthe Local Government and Land Acts. The first conceded to the Irish the right of self-government in purely local affairs. Until 1898 Grand Juries had managed those affairs; thereafter District and County Councils, democratic bodies, took their place. The Councils have done their work well and have had distinct educational value in the people's responsibility, knowledge, and appreciation as related to the art of government. The Land Act provided a way for tenants to become proprietors and removed the prime cause of friction between the two classes. But the money devoted to this benefaction will not alone regenerate Ireland. The people need instruction in modern agricultural and industrial methods. These in turn will only partially succeed unless stimulated by the Irishman's consciousness of a more active participation in his country's affairs, economic and administrative.

This increase of power is demanded, first of all, by the Irish Nationalists, whose idea of Home Rule carries with it complete independence and separation from England; second by those English Liberals who subscribe to the Gladstone programme of practical but not quite complete separation; third, by many well-wishers, Liberal and Conservative, who would give to the Irish the fullest possible management of their own affairs.

Such management was, in the judgment of many friends of Ireland, assured by the bill recently proposed in the House of Commons by Mr. Augustine Birrell, the well-known author of "Obiter Dicta" and other books of essays, who is Chief Secretary for Ireland in the present Liberal Cabinet. Mr. Birrell's statesmanlike measure was not at once rejected by Mr. Redmond, the leader in Parliament of the Irish Nationalists, who had been consulted during the various stages of the bill's preparation. But in the later Nationalist conclave in Dublin, influ

enced by opposition, both clerical and lay, Mr. Redmond rejected the measure. It would have meant to his starving constituents at least half a loaf. He demanded the whole and lost all-at least for the present parliamentary session. As has been well said, moderation is not melodramatic. The present Irish representatives in Parliament have seemed to distinguish themselves in the realm of melodrama only.

In their mortification at the Irish attitude and the consequent withdrawal of the measure, Mr. Birrell and the Liberal leaders have had the sympathy of many Conservatives and Unionists, among them the Earl of Dunraven, a great Irish landlord and perhaps the principal force behind the Land Act of 1903. Speaking of the policy of the party now in power, Lord Dunraven said: "I greatly rejoice, for policy is more important than party in my eyes. With all my heart I wish them Godspeed in it." Lord Dunraven's just published book, "The Outlook in Ireland," constitutes perhaps the strongest argument yet put forth for the passage of some such measure as Mr. Birrell's, conferring on the Irish sufficient and efficient control of local government. Despite the amazing tactics of Mr. Redmond, such a bill must ultimately be passed-if the Liberals cannot, perhaps a coalition government of Conservatives and Liberal Unionists may, repeating their successes of 1898 and 1903.

Those who resist the proposed reform should read Lord Dunraven's plea. As he says, the only occasion when the right of free government was strenuously denied to a portion of the British Empire was followed by a revolt culminating in the formation of the United States of America. The lesson taught by the rebellion of the American colonies has had powerful influence for good, as Lord Dunraven easily shows; for the British Empire affords plenty of testimony to that influence and to the benefits of free institutions.

The story of the British Empire is the record of political devolution, or the derivation of various amounts of selfgoverning powers from the sovereign Parliament by the communities forming the Empire. As our author truly affirms,