has a painful sense of loneliness and of unlimited liberty. Everything depends upon his own will and choice. His hours, his employments, his duties, even to the hours of his Mass and to his days for confession; his visits, his friends, his relaxations—all are dependent on his own will. It is a liberty which, generously used, turns all things and every day to gold, but if squandered and indulged must end in spiritual poverty, confusion, and peril. For a life of unlimited liberty is encompassed with manifold temptations. The very atmosphere is charged with danger. Few minds are so self-sufficing that they do not crave after human voices and human sympathies. A priest coming out of a seminary needs fellowship, and he often seeks it in society. He does not as yet know the character of those about him, or the reputation of the homes to which he is invited. Before he is aware he is often entangled in relations he would not have chosen, and in invitations which, if he had the courage, he would refuse. People are very hospitable, and pity a priest's loneliness, and like to have him at their tables. Sometimes the best of people are least circumspect and most kindly importunate in their invitations. How shall a young and inexperienced mind hold out against these facilities and allurements to relaxation,
