Addressing me, the bishop said: "Mr. Chiniquy, I beg you* pardon for having believed and repeated, that you were depraved enough to write those calumnies against your bishop, I was deceived by that deceitful man.

"I will immediately retract what I have written and said against you."

Then, addressing Mr. Courjeault he again said:

"The least punishment I can give you is to turn you out of my diocese, and write to all the Bishops of America, that you are the vilest priest I ever saw, that they may never give you any position on this Continent."

These last words had hardly fallen from the lips of the bishop, when Mr. Courjeault fell on his knees, before me, and bathing, with his tears, my hands, which he was convulsively pressing in his, said:

"Dear Mr. Chiniquy, I see the greatness of my iniquity against you and against our common bishop. For the dear Saviour Jesus' sake, forgive me. I take God to witness that you will never have a more devoted friend than I will be. And you, my lord, allow me to tell you, that I thank God that my malice and my great sin against both you and Mr. Chiniquy is known and punished at once. However, in the name of our crucified Saviour, I ask you to forgive me. God knows that, hereafter, you will not have a more obedient and devoted priest than I."

It was a most touching spectacle to see the tears, and hear the sobs of that repentant sinner. I could not contain myself, nor refrain from tears. They were mingled with those of that returning stray sheep. I answered:

"Yes, Mr. Courjeault, I forgive you with all my heart, as I wish my merciful God to forgive me my sins. May the God who sees your repentance forgive you also!"

Bishop Vandeveld, who was gifted with a most sensitive and kind nature, was also shedding tears, when I lifted up Mr. Courjeault to press him to my heart, and to tell him again with my voice choked with sobs: "I forgive you most sincerely, as I want to be forgiven."

He asked me: "What do you advise me to do? Must I for.

give also? and can I continue to keep him at the head of this important mission?"

"Yes, my lord. Please forgive and forget the errors of that dear brother; he has already done so much good to my countrymen of Bourbonnais. I pledge myself that he will, hereafter, be one of your best priests."

And the bishop forgave him, after some very appropriate and paternal advice, admirably mixed with mercy and firmness. It was then about three o'clock in the afternoon. We separated, to say our vespers and matins (prayers which took nearly an hour).

I had just finished reciting them in the garden, when I saw the Rev. Mr. Courjeault walking from the church towards me, but his steps were uncertain, as one distracted or half drunk. I was puzzled at the sight, for he was a strong teetotaler, and I knew he had no strong drink in the church. He advanced three or four steps, then retreated. At last, he came very near, but his face had such an expression of terror and sadness that he was hardly recognizable. He muttered something that I could not understand.

"Please repeat your sentence," I said to him, "I did not understand you."

He then put his hands on his face, and again muttered something. His voice was drowned in his tears and sobs. Supposing that he was coming to ask me again to pardon his past malice and calumnies against me, I felt an unspeakable compassion for him.

As there were a couple of seats near by, I said to him:

My dear Mr. Courjeault, come and sit here with me; and do not think any more of what God Almighty has blotted out with the blood of His Son. I will never think any more of your momentary errors. You may look upon me as your most de

voted friend."

"Dear Mr. Chiniquy," he answered, "I have to reveal to you another dark mystery of my miserable life. Since more than a year, I have lived with the beadle's daughter as if she were my

"She has just told me that she is to become a mother in a few days, and that I have to see to that, and give her $500. She threatens to denounce me publicly to the bishop and people if I do not support her and her offspring. Would it not be better for me to flee away, this night, and go back to France to live in my own family, and conceal my shame? Sometimes, I am even tempted to throw myself in the river, to put an end to my miserable and dishonored existence. Do you think that the bishop would forgive this new crime, if I threw myself at his feet and asked pardon? Would he give me some other place in his vast diocese, where my misfortunes and my sins are not known? Please tell me what to do."

I remained absolutely stupefied, and did not know what to answer. Though I had compassion for the unfortunate man, I must confess that this new development of his hypocrisy and rascality filled me with an unspeakable horror and disgust. He had, till then, wrapped himself in such a thick mantle of deception that many of his people looked upon him as an angel of purity. His infamies were so well concealed under an exterior of extreme moral rigidity that several of his parishioners looked upon him as a saint, whose relics could perform miracles. Not long before, two young couples, of the best families of Bourbonnais, having danced in a respectable social gathering, had been condemned by him, and compelled to ask pardon, publicly, in the church. This pharisaical rigidity caused the secret vices of that priest to be still more conspicuous and scandalous. I felt that the scandal which would follow the publication of this mystery of iniquity would be awful; that it would even cause many, forever, to lose faith in our church. So many sad thoughts filled my mind that I was confused and unable to give him any advice. I answered:

"Your misfortune is really great. If the bishop were not here, I might, perhaps, tell you my mind about the best thing to do, just now. But the bishop is here; he is the only man to whom you have to go to know how to come out of the bottom. less abyss into which you have fallen. He is your proper counsellor; go and tell him, frankly, everything, and follow his advice."

With staggering step, and in such deep emotions that his sobs and cries could be heard for quite a distance, he went to the bishop. I remained alone, half petrified at what I had heard.

Half an hour later, the bishop came to me. He was pale and his eyes reddened with tears. He said to me:

"Mr. Chiniquy, what an awful scandal! What a new disgrace for our holy church! That Mr. Courjeault, whom I thought, till to-day, to be one of my best priests, is an incarnate devil. What shall I do with him? Please help me by your advice; tell me what you consider the best way of preventing the scandal, and protecting the faith of the good people against the destructive storm which is coming upon them."

"My dear Bishop," I answered, "the more I consider these scandals here, the less I see how we can save the church from becoming a dreadful wreck. I feel too much the responsibility of my advice to give it. Let your lordship, guided by the Spirit of God, do what you consider the best for the honor of the church and the salvation of so many souls, which are in danger of perishing when this scandal becomes known. For me, the only thing I can do is to conceal my face with shame, go back to my young colony to pray and weep and work."

The bishop replied: "Here is what I intend to do. Mr. Courjeault tells me that there is not the least suspicion among the people of his sin, and that it is an easy thing to send that girl to the house provided in Canada for priests' offenses, without awakening any suspicion. He seems so penitent, that I hope, hereafter, we have nothing to fear from him. He will now live the life of a good priest here, without giving any scandal. But

I remove him, then there will be some suspicions of his fall, and the awful scandal we want to avoid will come. Please lend me $100, which I will give to Mr. Courjeault, to send that girl to Canada as soon as possible; and he will continue here, to work with wisdom after this terrible trial. What do you think of that plan?"

"If your lordship is sure of the conversion of Mr. Courjeault, and that there is no danger of his great iniquity being known by the people, evidently the wisest thing you can do is

to send that girl to Canada, and keep Mr. Courjeault here. Though I see great dangers even in that way of dealing in this sad affair. But, unfortunately, I have not a cent in hand to-day, and I cannot lend you the $100 you want."

"Then," said the bishop, "I will give a draft on a bank of Chicago, but you must endorse it."

"I have no objection, my lord, to endorse any draft signed by your lordship," I replied.

Though it was late in the day, and that I had, at first, proposed to spend the night, I came back to my dear colony of St. Anne. Bourbonnais appeared to me like a burning house, in the cellar of which there was a barrel of powder, from which one could not keep himself too far away.

Five days later, four of the principal citizens of that interesting, but sorely tried, place knocked at my door. They were sent as a deputation from the whole village to ask me what to do about their curate, Mr. Courjeault. They told me that several of them had, long since, suspected what was going on between that priest and the beadle's daughter, but they had kept that secret. However, yesterday, they said the eyes of the parish had been opened to the awful scandal.

The disgusting demonstrations and attention of the curate, when the victim of his lust took the diligence, left no doubt in the minds of any one that she is to have a child in Montreal.

"Now, Mr. Chiniquy, we are sent here to ask your advice. Please tell us what to do."

"My dear friends," I answered, "it is not from me, but from our common bishop, that you must ask what is to be done in such deplorable affairs."

But they replied: "Would you not be kind enough to come to Bourbonnais with us, and go to our unfortunate priest to tell him that his criminal conduct is known by the whole people, and that we cannot decently keep him a day longer as our Christian teacher. He has rendered us great services in the past, which we will never forget. We do not want to abuse or insult him in any way. Though guilty, he is still a priest. The only favor we ask from him now is that he quits the place, without noise