Father Paul cannot know how hard it is. Everyone loves him, and he loves everybody, in one sense; but, in another, how different he is from Gerard or from me! I am sure he never loved any one as Gerard loves me, or as I love Gerard. He is like an old saint, only more human; for I cannot believe that the great saints ever laughed, or joked, or wrestled with their disciples as Father Paul does. Yet Paul is a saint. I am sure that the good God loves him and honours him very much. He is so kind, and so stern at the same time; so gentle, and yet so strong. Perhaps Gerard, when he grows old, will be like him. I hope he will, but Gerard is not a bit like him now. He is very good, very good and kind to me—kinder even than Father Paul; yet some do not like him, while all like Father Paul. Even Alban does not, I think, like him very much. I remember we had words about it. They were not many; but I was so sorry, and, though I kissed Alban and he kissed me to make it up, I cannot quite forget. But then
