Some of you can tell him so when he's sober."

They told him apparently before that desirable state was reached, and standing under my window a little later, flushed with victory, he expressed his opinion of me and my manners-which he offered to improve in one lesson if I'd give him the chance.

This, I declined to do until he should be saner, whereupon he classified me as a cowardly water-drinking viper, saying there were none such in ould Ireland, thanks be to St. Patrick, and went away to drink again, with the result that a little before midnight Kathleen M'Carthy was yelling murder for all she was worth.

I was awake and dressed, and reading, and I had not forgotten Ould Tim's contemptuous sarcasms. It sounded as though Kathleen was suffering for my shyness of encounter, and that stung me badly. Besides, twice, to my knowledge, killing had been done within a hundred yards of that place without any attempt at interference, and I had no mind to risk being a party to a third such affair. The screams continuing, I ran out and knocked up a neighbor.

"Fetch the police for your life!" I said, "and bring them to Tim M'Carthy's!" and then I bolted down my stair and stumbled up Tim's, until I had groped my way to his door.

There I paused and listened, lurking on the threshold with no thirst for unnecessary risks. Kathleen was now scolding and crying at the same time, so the danger was not pressing. I did not know how many might be in the room, but I calculated that they were likely all to set upon me together, if I presented myself as an unbidden guest, and here I thought I would wait for the police. I listened lest any sudden outbreak should force me to go in alone, but the first fresh sound came from below. A quick step sounded in the wind, and mounted the stair. It was too quick and light for one of the police, but came up with the decided sound of a foot that knew the place and had no need to soften its tread. I moved to meet it, and was at once challenged in VOL. XII. 594

LIVING AGE.

a clear, firm voice, as a shadowy figure

rose.

"Ah! Your neighbor met me," the voice broke in directly I began to explain. "You frightened him, and he has insisted on going for the police, though I told him I didn't think they'd be needed. Let's go in!"

"They're quieter now," I whispered; "shan't we wait?"

"Why?" said the voice brusquely; and, without waiting for the answer which I was cudgelling my brains to shape as concisely as the question, the figure threw the door open and stepped in confidently with a "Pax vobiscum."

I, ashamed, followed close upon his heels, and was immediately put on my guard, for Ould Tim, whose whiskeysodden intelligence, I believe, the salutation had not yet reached, scented treachery, and came for me as straight and as swiftly as his condition would allow.

"Pax vobiscum!" The slight straight figure stepped swiftly between us, one hand upraised, and Tim came no farther.

"Stand you back, Tim M'Carthy!" said the little man severely, "or if you can't stand, then lie, but don't come a step this way, or 'twill be a bad night for you!"

But there was no thought of rebellion. When two tall and sturdy members of the city police tramped stolidly up a few minutes later, there was nothing for them to do. Tim lay asleep and snoring in the corner; Kathleen moaned and winced a little under the deft fingers of the priest, who was dressing a cut over one well-blackened eye, while I, a medical-though it is true only in my second year-was humbly holding the candle. The two men grinned and saluted, getting a quick little nod in return, as my companion, safety-pin in mouth, made a neat reverse of the bandage round Kathleen's head.

"We're no needit," said one of them, with conviction; and I saw a little dry smile develop, as well as it might, round the safety-pin.

The two men saluted again and went away, and we finished patching up Kathleen. After that, the little man,

having shaken his head sternly over the unconscious Tim in the corner, gave a parting word to his wife.

"Send your man to me by nine tomorrow morning, Kathleen M'Carthyand see that he comes sober. Come round yourself after vespers, and I'll look at your head. Now, sir, if you and I are going down the stair together, we might introduce ourselves."

In that way began my acquaintance with Father Munro.

I walked to his door with him that night, and did not decline so unhesitatingly as I ought to have done when he invited me to come in.

because while I watched and listened he showed so clearly what manner of man he was.

His demeanor was courtesy itself, yet peremptory, matching well with the fine, closely cropped head, the benignant face, and strong, firm jaw. A distinguished, almost foreign politeness ornamented his soldierly speech just as a damascening of gold will ornament a good steel blade. I was sure he had lived abroad; I should not have been surprised to hear that he had seen military service, and in my own mind I then and there dubbed him "The Little General." One thing marked

"Pooh! Nonsense!" said the old man in his sharp, military manner. "Young fellows like you and old fellows like me are no lieabeds. Come away in, man!" and I went with no further ado.

He took me into a fair-sized square room, sparsely furnished, but having its walls hidden by books from floor to ceiling. On the table stood a plate of cold porridge and a quaint, tall glass of milk, set out daintily with a fine white napkin-and an old silver spoon; and this I mention, since later I found that a mixture of simplicity with touches of daintiness were characteristic of Father Munro. These things he looked at whimsically for an instant, first at them, then at me, and, making an excuse, left the room. Presently he came back triumphant, a bottle of wine In one hand and a plate of cheese in the other, and, setting them down and paying no heed to my remonstrances, went off again to fetch in more.

"I'm hungry, and can't eat alone," was all he said, when things were arranged to his satisfaction; after which, pouring out wine for me, he said a short Latin grace, and attacked his porridge with vigor and decision, beaming upon me when I showed a good appetite, but taking none of his good things for himself.

After supper, however, he allowed himself a pipe; while I, at his invitation, lit a cigarette, and he started to chat. Of the actual talk little or nothing is worth repeating. I recall it only

types I am accustomed to; he seemed to have no practical respect for the law, as of general application, and that showed itself in the one speech which I think worth repeating.

Speaking of the way in which he had marched in upon Ould Tim, I suggested that he ran. more risk than was necessary. At this Father Munro cocked a clear grey eye at me, and asked what I would have had him do.

"The law," I said, "and the police, are for such people, are they not, and for such times? Did you need to run the risk of meeting a mad drunkard, and possibly others behind him, when the police were almost at the door?"

But Father Munro was indignant. "The law, sir! the law! Risk! and the police! The law is meant to protect the weak and the defenceless, is it not? I was there, and you, sir"'-with a polite little bow. "They are my parishioners, and accept me as their judge, yes, and their executioner on occasion. Boastfulness is unbecoming in an old man; but at one time, sir, some said I could use rapier and claymore a bit, and my hand can guard my head yet when I carry my pastoral staff."

He nodded, twinkling quaintly toward a corner of the room, and looking there I saw a stout blackthorn.

"Do you think I go about among my poor children with the law at my back?" he asked, seeming almost hurt at the notion.

"I noticed that the law evidently thought you could take care of your

self," I said, remembering the two policemen, and this seemed to please Father Munro. He laughed, and told me that the police were his very good friends, some of them his parishioners too, and then turned the conversation, chatting to me about books and my own work until I got up hurriedly, with an apology for having been led to forget the time.

"I must be in your parish too, sir," I told him, "and if a heretic is allowed to come in now and then when you're not too busy, or to hope for a pastoral visitation, I wish you would add my name to your list."

The little man, rising alertly to see me out, looked keenly into my eyes for a second, and then held out his hand.

"These doors are open to you, my son, whenever you choose, and if an old man's society won't trouble you, you shall see me up your stairs before long," and he bade me good-night.

After that I began to see Father Munro often, and to hear of him still oftener. Every one who knew him had a good word for him, and after having been seen once or twice in his company, I met the Irish among my neighbors on a very different footing. Even the M'Carthys grew friendly, and nothing pleased Young Tim better than to yarn away about the little priest's doings. He told me of the waking of M'Clure, of the great Orange fight, and of many other matters, in all of which Father Munro was the hero.

"Faith, he's a man!" Young Tim would say at last, in a way that made me think he placed that same man above most of the saints.

One thing, however, Father Munro could not do with either Young Tim or Ould Tim. He could not stop their whiskey-drinking. Ould Tim would keep off it for a Saturday, maybe even two, but rarely three. The longer he was sober, the longer and fiercer would be the bout that followed, and the worse for poor old Kathleen. As for Young Tim, he drank much less, but a much smaller quantity put him in the fighting mood. He never struck his wife, and he tried to avoid Ould Tim;

but when they met, both in their cups, then and there was a battle royal.

Thus things were, when one summer Saturday evening, a year after my first meeting with Father Munro, I passed into the court as Ould Tim came staggering out. At the foot of his stair were some angry women, who, after he had reeled by, screamed their abuse at him. Up-stairs I could hear Kathleen moaning, and I was told that the beating had been much worse than usual, so bad that, just before Ould Tim had left her, one neighbor had gone off for Young Tim and another for Father Munro.

I ran up the stairs, and found the woman badly bruised, but nothing more, and then, on my way to the infirmary, saw Young Tim hurrying away towards the wynd, stick in hand. A little farther on I met the woman who had gone for Father Munro. "His riverence was out," she said, "and wouldn't be in for an hour, when he'd be told," and I passed on, to forget all about the matter a few minutes later, in the work of what is known as intaking, which is as follows:

Each medical and each surgical ward has its in-taking day and night, during which it receives, if possible, all cases admitted for treatment. On a Saturday night, therefore, there will be a resident surgeon on duty to examine and treat all surgical cases. deciding which shall be admitted, and which must be treated as out-patients. This was receiving night for the surgical ward in which I clerked; and being a Saturday, was fairly busy.

A battered drunkard or two came in, of course, and battered victims of the same. A child also who had been run over, and a girl from the country, at whom the ever-flourishing fool had pointed the ever-handy loaded gun, though, fortunately, without the usual fatal result. We had seen to the girl, and packed her off to bed; and Macintosh, the resident, was relieving his mind, and amusing us, by telling the fool what he thought of him, what might happen, and what might be the consequences to him (the fool), when another cab rolled to the door. A lively

young dresser, wno sat on the table swinging his legs jumped down and ran out to see what was coming, but came back at once.

"A reverend gentleman on the spreé!" he announced; and presently in came Father Munro.

His shovel hat was crushed down over his eyes, his coat collar was turned up to meet it, his face-as much of it as could be seen when he came in-was chalky-white, and the face of Young Tim, on whose arm he leaned heavily, was not much better.

I stepped forward at once, speaking to him by name as I did so, and "The Little General" greeted me with a dazed smile.

"Old bones, Mr. Tregenna, and old eyes! I've had a tumble at last, you see, and Tim M'Carthy insisted on bringing me here."

"Quite right, sir," I said. "Here's the doctor ready for you," and I introduced Macintosh, being very careful to let that gentleman know the sort of man he had for a patient.

I might have spared myself the trouble. Father Munro was his own recommendation, and in two minutes was sitting bolt upright-he refused to lie on the table-having two very ugly head wounds examined and being treated with as much respect as any pope could desire. There were two straight clean cuts, side by side, across the top of the head, and on one side was another, and the resident stood looking at them curiously before he asked any questions.

top, and one at the side. Where before had I seen such another head? I could not remember, but stood racking my brain with no result.

"Now then, Tregenna! Look alive, man!"

Macintosh roused me from my meditation with a nudge, and I gave him the help that he wanted, wondering all the time.

"Were you alone, sir?"

Macintosh asked this while he pushed the examination further. He seemed puzzled too.

"I was going up the stair alone," Father Munro said patiently.

"You must have struck your head twice, then?"

"I cannot remember all. I was rather stunned, I think."

"Rather!" Macintosh muttered to himself, and then seemed to remember Young Tim, who was still standing and watching us anxiously from the far end of the room. "Were you there at the time?"

Macintosh asked Young Tim the question, but it was Father Munro who answered "M'Carthy found me at the foot of the stair," and Young Tim said nothing.

Macintosh evidently thought that the less his patient talked the better, and he asked no more questions just then.

We got Father Munro to bed, shaved off the thick grey hair, dressed the great scalp wounds, and put an ice cap on the grand old head, and for a time all went well. Before we had finished, I remembered where I had seen other

"I was going up a dark stair," Father Munro told him quietly, “and I had a fall."

"Did your head strike against anything?"

"I expect I struck it in falling," said Father Munro; and then, a little more slowly and distinctly, "it was a mistake made in the dark."

I might be wrong, but it seemed to me that he meant every one in the place to hear that, and standing by the resident, I looked still more carefully at the head. Two clean-cut, parallel wounds on the

waited.