flower, but grew by the river of life. I have often meditated
thereon, that it was like unto living silver with a light in itself,
like the moon,–even as our Lord’s garments in the Transfiguration,
which glistened like the snow. I have
cast about in myself by what device a painter might represent so
marvellous a flower." "Now, brother Antonio," said Elsie, "if you
begin to talk to the child about such matters, our Lady alone knows
when we shall get to bed. I am sure I’m as good a Christian as
anybody; but, as I said, there’s reason in all things, and one cannot
always be wondering
and inquiring into heavenly matters,–as to every feather in Saint
Michael’s wings, and as to our Lady’s girdle and shoe-strings and
thimble and work-basket; and when one gets through with our Lady,
then one has it all to go
over about her mother, the blessed Saint Anne (may her name be ever
praised!). I mean no disrespect, but I am certain the saints are
reasonable folk and must see that poor folk must live, and, in order
to live, must think

of something else now and then besides _them_. That’s my mind,
brother."

"Well, well, sist