The Two Hosts.

IT was midnight, and a miserably wet winter's night. Snow had fallen heavily the day before; then partially melted, leaving those heaps of brown slush so detestable to pedestrians in London. And now it was coming on again a mixture of sleet and rain and snow, which a piercing easterly wind drove in the faces of the unhappy wanderers from their firesides.

Yet one was braving it, as best he might, keeping steadily on his way, taking no notice either of the drunken revellers, whom, from time to time, he met at the corner of a gin palace, or of the muttered "God bless him" of some belated Irishman, who, respectfully touching his hat, would make way for him on the pavement and look after him as he passed with a kind of regretful eagerness, as if his presence had recalled memories of the cabin on the hill-side and of past and, may be, more innocent years. For that poor ragged Celt, with his slouched hat and frieze clothes, knew who he was: and still more Whom he was bearing. Dressed in those shabby, ill-fitting, black clothes, which an absurd legislation has decreed shall pretend to disguise the fact that the religious orders have once more returned to bless our land, the holy Capuchin Father was hurrying on, regardless of wet and cold, reverently bearing the Lord of lords, to cheer and sustain -may be to save at the eleventh hour, a soul about to appear in presence of its Maker.

It was not for one of his own flock, but for a dying man belonging to a neighbouring parish, the priest of which was unavoidably absent on an urgent sick call.

And it is miles away from his monastery, at Rotherhithe, by the river-side. And the few street lamps have wellnigh disappeared: and the little lantern which he bears, is almost extinguished by the driving pitiless storm. But still he hurries on, past miles of dingy back streets, where the houses look as if they had all been built by the yard on one grimy, uniform pattern. Even the vile public houses which line the way are mostly emptied of their usual occupants. But at last he finds himself at the door of a miserable house in a wretched quarter, where each family is huddled into a single room, without any pretence at decency or modesty in their arrangements. And who can blame them? Or how can such tenements be improved? The thing is simply impossible, as long as human beings are thus crowded and packed into one small space, with no division for sex or age; with no provision for either cleanliness or drainage; and with no visit from the sanitary inspector, until some fearful outbreak of cholera or fever decimates the inmates and compels public attention for a time to the consideration of the evil. But I am digressing. Two or three dirty, slatternly, but kind-hearted, Irishwomen were hanging round the place, and eagerly offered to show the dying man's room to the welcome visitor. "Pat! here's the Praste-God bless him!" exclaimed one, as she pushed open the door, after scrambling up a filthy staircase, and revealed a scene too common in London to excite any surprise, yet not the less revolting in spite of its familiarity. In a corner of the room, on a bundle of rags and straw, which served as a pretence for a bed, lay the dying man. Children and persons of various ages were crouched on the floor in different attitudes, some some asleep, some awake. One woman, kneeling by the bed, was crying bitterly. On a broken chair was a medicine-bottle and a cracked cup. On the hearth smouldered a wretched fire, with the invariable black pot swung across the embers. Other furniture was there none. And the atmosphere of the room

may be imagined, with that seething mass of humanity when the window had evidently not been opened for weeks!

But to all this our good Capuchin seemed indifferent. Rapidly kneeling down by the soul who needed his care, he found the poor fellow at first unconscious. He asked for a little water; and after some difficulty, a cupful was brought to him, which looked like dirty milk, and was probably melted snow. Adding a few drops of brandy to it from a flask he had brought with him, and putting it to the sick man's lips, the flickering life revived; and after a few minutes, clearing the room of its inmates, the priest performed his sacred office. It was a less painful one than usual, for the poor Irishman was a good man, who, in spite of adverse circumstances, had always kept the faith, as, thank God! is so often the case with those poor "hewers of wood and drawers of water" in our big towns. His confession over and the absolution given, the priest prepared to open the pyx to give him the Viaticum: when, to his great surprise, he found there were two Hosts in it instead of one. It was a most extraordinary coincidence. Either, in the haste of his departure from the monastery, he had inadvertently put in two instead of one, or from some unexplained cause, there they certainly were. But he had scarcely time to reflect upon it. The sick man absorbed all his care; and after another hour, the agony began, the prayers for the departing soul were said, the last absolutions given, and soon a solemn stillness fell upon all, for the end was come, the last sigh had been breathed, and the good priest prepared to return home, carefully bearing the Sacred Treasure, the second Host, on his breast.

As he was passing by a back and unfrequented street, which he had been told would shorten his journey, he suddenly heard a piercing cry, followed by a sobbing wail which was even more painful to listen to. It came from a tidy-looking house on the other side of the road, and as

he stopped to inquire, a man came out into the street, and recognizing the Father touched his hat to him.

"What is the matter?" exclaimed the priest. "Who is crying so piteously up there?"

"It's a young lady, Father," replied the man, “and I think it's just you she's wanting," he added, opening the door as he spoke; "for she was took very bad this night, and my missus doubts if she will live till morning."

The good Father hastened upstairs, and found a young and very pretty girl, evidently in the last stage of consumption. Her joy at seeing him was great, though at first she could scarcely speak save in sobs, while she murmured a few broken words at intervals. "Oh! our Lord has heard my prayer. Our Lady has sent you. Thank God! thank God!" And then her tears burst forth afresh, till the priest feared she would entirely exhaust herself before she could make her confession. In every way he tried to soothe and console her, and at last so far succeeded that she was able to tell him her sad story.

She was, as he saw at once, gently born and bred, and had been brought up by Catholic parents in a Catholic home, and afterwards sent to a convent to complete her education, which she had only left six months before. Her only fault was vanity and a love of dress and pretty clothes; but that one fault was the poor child's ruin. One day she went out shopping alone, only intending to be absent for a few minutes. A gentleman-like looking man met her in the shop, and seeing her sorely tempted by a beautiful dress, which yet she could not afford to buy, bought it at once himself and gave it to her. In her joy and pleasure, and totally ignorant and unsuspicious of evil or danger, she consented to let him accompany her home. Then he persuaded her to walk a little further with him. And then-but why dwell on the sad details? Enough to say that he was a villain, and ruined her. She dared not then go home. As he offered her at once the shelter of

his house, she felt she had no choice but to accept it, but never knew a moment's peace or freedom from remorse, which sometimes amounted to positive despair. And soon he got tired of her and her fretting, and left her.

Then began a time of misery of which she had never dreamed. And she tried to go out and get some work, but could not succeed. And she caught a violent chill, and the cold settled on her chest, for she was always delicate. Yet all the time shame prevented her going home or seeking a priest. But that day she had broken a blood-vessel, and the doctor had been sent for by the woman of the house, who, on the whole, had not been unkind to the poor child. And when he came he said she was dying, and that her friends must be sent for. But she would not let them send for any of them. How could she face her father's anger? her mother's bitter grief? Better they should fancy her dead than dishonoured. And then the terrible remorse which had always been gnawing at her heart filled her with unspeakable agony and fear. She cried out for a priest; but none was at hand, and the woman of the house said, "She must wait till the morning; it wasn't a night to turn out a dog." And the poor child felt herself dying, and that the morning might be too late; and so she was wailing and crying and praying for our Lord to have mercy on her, and to send her one of His ministers to absolve her from her sin. He heard her prayer, and sent His faithful servant to bind up her broken and penitent heart, and to bid her once more hope, as Magdalen had hoped, that her sin would be forgiven by His precious Blood. The poor child made her confession with a contrition and heartfelt sorrow which went to the very heart of the good priest, whose task was not to alarm her conscience, but to renew her confidence in the mercy of God. And then he understood our Lord's meaning in the second Host, which had seemed so strange and unaccountable to him before, and marvelled at the ways of God's wonderful mercy and loving-kindness. Before the