by the bedside of the sick or dying, or on the battle-field or in lonely exile, or beside the prison gate. To each trembling child of sorrow has Jesus repeated the same compassionate saying: "The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak."
One afternoon, as Madam Chenoweth sat with her little daughter, a shadow darkened the doorway. Glancing up, she saw a priest of the Order of Jesus. An involuntary cry escaped her lips, and her face grew a shade paler.
A bitter smile crossed the Jesuit's face as he said: "I must, indeed, be sadly changed if Madam Chenoweth shrinks from me in fear. Has not Mistress Van Cortlandt a place for me in her heart? or am I totally forgotten?"
The priest cast aside his cowl, and stood where the light from the window shone full upon his face.
"Louis Van Steen! " gasped Madam, a new and terrible fear clutching at her heart.
"Ah, Madam, I am glad your memory has not played you false. Yes, Louis Van Steen stands before you, but it is not the same wild, impetuous youth who so passionately sued for your love, and who cherished the rose which you discarded as if it had dropped straight from Paradise. It is not your playmate and your lover who stands before you now, but a man who has learned in the school of discipline to estimate feelings at their true value. How is it with you, Madam Chenoweth? Has
