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Eager to domineer over this soul of predilection, the Spirit of Evil tried every ruse. His only success was that Francis for awhile.gave himself to amusements and the gay world. He was fond of merry parties, and his mind ran much on thoughts of glory and greatness. God, however, did not allow his soul to become a prey to vice.

His rare endowments had gained for him the esteem and admiration of the town's people. He became recognised as leader of the young men of the town. But he was to be advanced to greater preferment. It was God's will to change the thoughts of this generous soul, and in him, give the world a mighty example of the folly and wisdom of the Cross.

Francis had been for some time under the first promptings of grace, when hearing Mass one day in the little chapel of St. Mary of the Angels, he was struck with the words of the Gospel: "Take with you neither gold nor silver." The words came to him like a revelation of the beauty of poverty. "This is what I seek," he said; "this is what my heart desires." Burning with a holy zeal for evangelical perfection, he gave his coat to a beggarman and put on instead a rough covering of sackcloth, which he bound round his waist with a rope. From that moment he commenced to preach penance, joining almost constant prayer to the greatest austerities, and begging his bread from door to door.

On that day was founded the Order of Friars Minor, or Franciscans, as they were called, after their institutor's name. On that day Francis raised aloft the standard of holy Poverty, round which thousands were soon to be gathered.

St. Francis was twenty-five at the time of this great change. The news was soon abroad in the town. In the eyes of the world his conduct was senseless folly, and he was not long left in ignorance of what people thought of it. He was hooted and jeered in the streets where he was formerly held in respect and honour, and his father disowned

him. All these trials were sweet to the patient soul of the Saint. The more despised he was by the world, the more did God fill his heart with the happiness of heaven. In his fervent prayers our Lord deigned often to appear to him, and sometimes as He looked in His agony. His soul was pierced through with compassion at the sight, which so affected him that he could not think of the Passion without weeping bitterly. As the fire of charity grew in him so did love of poverty. No man ever sighed more for humiliation and pain; no man ever lived in such strict poverty, and loved it as much. It is not strange that evangelical poverty should become the foundation and distinguishing characteristic of the Order which he instituted.

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SEVEN years have gone by. The parish priest, now a whitehaired old man, was sitting near the garden gate in an attitude of nervous expectancy, watching the dusty village road where a dust cloud arose in the distance. "He's coming, Dorothy-he's coming!" he called into the house, whose door was ornamented with a large green festoon, while all along the front went a garland of flowers most artistically arranged with an evident view to colour and effect. An oldish little lady, whose features bore an unmistakable resemblance to those of the pastor, hurried out.

"Do you see the carriage, Dorothy? Look! he is waving his hat already."

"Yes, it is Felix, indeed! Nero, Felix is coming. Down, sir! Look, John, the dog knows what I mean; look at him wagging his tail and cocking up his ears!"

"Yes, everything is glad like ourselves to have him back. again. We missed the boy sorely, he has wound himself so round our hearts."

"What a blessing the child has been!" chimed in his sister, "always so steady and hardworking; and when we got the telegram telling of the brilliant examination he passed

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"Where is Aloysia?" interrupted the pastor, evidently to hide how deeply moved he was.

"She came for a moment, bringing that lovely garland and a splendid bunch of white lilies; she will come back only when the first greetings are over-dear, thoughtful child that she is."

Meantime the carriage had arrived in the village street. Scarcely had it reached the first house when a shower of nosegays fell at the occupant's feet, and smiling faces greeted him at every window and door. Every one knew that the priest's Felix had passed an unusually successful examination, and was come home for a short holiday before entering the ecclesiastical seminary. For, of course, he was to be a priest; that was a settled thing with every inhabitant of the village. It was true that the mother of the innkeeper's wife, who enjoyed the reputation of being something of a prophetess, had said: "Felix has eyes too dark and restless for a priest's look," but the prophecy found no belief it was an understood thing in the village that Felix should be a priest-hadn't the father said it, and did the father ever go wrong? Not a villager but would have taken his oath on it on the gospels.

The carriage stopped before the presbytery, and in a second Felix was in his uncle's arms, whence he passed into those of aunt Dora, who was fairly crying with joy. How tall and strong he had grown-much stronger than his uncle.

Aunt Dora held him for a minute at arms' length, looking steadfastly into the dark, clear, shining eyes, and then said with a sigh of relief:-"Thank God, he has come back unsullied by the world."

All three then repaired to the parlour, which was decorated with flowers; dinner was ready, in which all the favourite dishes of Felix found place. Nor was Martin, the priest's servant-man, who, though dumb, had served him for many years, forgotten. Aunt Dora herself had slipped out with a glass of wine and an enormous hunch of cake to him, because he had driven "the young master" home from the station.

Like a tall, shapely fir-tree the young man stood between those two beings to whom he was all in all on earth; the dinner stood untouched on the table; no one thought of eating. Felix was speaking with his peculiarly harmonious voice, telling of his studies, his examination, of all the events, to them of overwhelming interest, which had happened in between. The priest listened, smiling delightedly now and then; but his gaze, uninterruptedly fixed on the speaker's face, sometimes assumed an anxious look, as though seeking something, or else troubled by what he found. In the midst of a lively description of some incident of student life, the sound of the Angelus bell was wafted in through the open window, and all three stood up, moved by the one impulse. Whilst the priest humbly bowed his grey head before the crucifix fastened to the wall, and his sister, in pious womanly fashion, bowed down almost to the ground, Felix went to the side window, leaned his forehead against the pane, and half joined his hands in prayer; but not one inch did his figure relax its haughty bearing, and his head never bowed.

The sun had long sunk below the horizon; twilight fell softly over the presbytery garden; the birds in the trees of the neighbouring churchyard were pouring forth with full throat their evening song. Under the massive bower of

sweet-scented jassamine sat the parish priest, finishing his breviary by the last faint glimmer of the daylight. He had nearly come to an end, when he was startled by a rustling near him; he looked up, and with a faint cry of terror let the breviary fall. A tall, strongly-built beggarman, of most unprepossessing aspect, stood before him, with black eyes, full of hatred, gazing straight into the priest's face, whilst his mouth, half hidden by a thick, unkempt beard, twitched strangely.

"Good evening, your reverence," said the stranger, in a hoarse whisper.

'Back out of this! What do you want here, you wretched man?" cried the priest, staring with intense horror at his visitant, whilst every drop of blood left his face, and his breath came in short, quick gasps.

"You have no need to be so mightily afraid," coolly answered the beggar. "It is now a long time since we saw each other, and I thought I had better fulfil my duty by inquiring a bit after the lad-he has grown up a fine man. I saw him on his arrival to-day. I suppose you have made him a regular church-goer "-here a sardonic smile passed over the face of the speaker-" but, on the whole, you have acted fairly by the boy, otherwise I should have put in an appearance long ago.'

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"Begone!" cried the priest, unable any longer to contain himself, "begone, and return no more to destroy the peace and happiness of this house. You have no right over the boy."

"Come, now, that is rather strong; suppose his little lordship would object to my company. You've been cramming his head with pretty stories about me, and especially of

"For God's sake be silent and go away. Do not ruin the whole life of the poor boy now about to enter the world. He knows nothing, and will never learn aught from my lips.

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