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tried to snatch at the sacred deposit in his breast, but he had the strength and courage to resist them they cast him on the ground and tried to unclasp his arms, but these folded rigid as steel over the sacred deposit. Cuffs, pulls, blows, kicks had no effect, he would not betray to ravening dogs the Body of his Lord." In their brutal violence, attempting to tear open the thrice holy trust, the child was so severely bruised that he died on the spot; but a supernatural power protected the Blessed Sacrament from profanation. Tarcisius' body was found by the Christians, who carried it all bleeding to the catacombs, the Divine Treasure being still locked in his arms. This child martyr of the Blessed Sacrament was buried in the papal crypt near Pope St. Zephyrinus, and later the holy Pope Damasus composed for him an epitaph, which is thus translated by Cardinal Wiseman : (Fabiola, ch. 22).

"Christ's secret gifts, by good Tarcisius borne,

The mob profanely bade him to display;

He rather gave his own limbs to be torn,

Than Christ's celestial to mad dogs betray.'

His body is now venerated in the Church of S. Silvestro in Capite.

A ROMANCE OF THE GUADALUPE.

"AND that is the way it was," wound up old Santos.

Little Pedro nodded, words seemed unnecessary; but his bare brown toes kicked up the earth underfoot in a manner suggestive of thorough contentment and appreciation.

"It was a long time ago," pursued the old Mexican, as if loath to leave off his story; "but they do say that since then the Madre Santisima never fails to touch the heart of whoever prays at her mountain shrine."

He arose as he spoke, and knocking the ashes from his pipe walked into the low-roofed adobe hut where his wife was preparing the midday meal.

"A long time ago," thought little Pedro, "and the Madre Santisima did it-the good Madre!"

He lay on his back gazing up at the sky; but presently his thoughts became far off and hazy, and gradually the black lashes closed. over the brown eyes, and he was asleep. Overhead the hot Texas sun beat down on the bare brown earth, lighting up the gilt cross on the village church, and lending a soft sheen to the delicate haze that hung over the distant hills. Range on range these mountains extended, as far as the eye could reach, while between them lay rich fertile valleys through which ran the romantic Guadalupe, its clear waters winding in and out of the trees until it was lost to view in the distant range of hills.

Hotter and hotter grew the sun, but little Pedro slept on; what would indeed have been intolerable heat in the North was here tempered by a strong breeze from the South, and the freedom of the atmosphere from dampness or humidity made the mounting thermometer endurable.

Down at the railroad station two canvas covered trail wagons drawn by six burros, had just come in from the country. Some swarthy Mexicans, in their picturesque sombreros, were unloading the carts, making more haste than usual, as it was nearly time for the freight train. One of them, a tall, handsome young fellow, occasionally glanced up to the brow of the hill where Thomassie, the old Párroco's cook, a graceful slender figure, stood at the pump, her shapely brown arms and hands lifted high above her head, as she grasped the pump

handle firmly, bringing it down with regular rythmical strokes, the while her supple figure bent slightly at each downward sweep of the handle. To watch Thomassie was to see the poetry of motion, so thought the stranger, as the Mexican woman, lifting up her shining tin pails, went back to the kitchen.

The hands of the clock in the church steeple presently pointed to the hour of noon, and the whole village appeared as if asleep. Only the far off lowing of the cattle, or the call of Bob White to his mate, broke the stillness, as the stranger turned his horse toward the hills, and riding up the mountain trail, presently found a cool, shady spot where he sat down to record the story of love and life-of joy and pain and undying faith, that he had heard old Santos relate to his little grandson.

"It was some forty years ago that a little cottage stood high up among the hills, and hither had come a Señor from the North for the sake of the good air, for indeed he had the tisis, and his cough was bad.

"With the Señor was his wife and little boy, and his sister the Señorita Lénore. She was beautiful, the young Señorita, and holy, often I saw her at mass-I was a young man then, Caro, and it seemed to me some secret sorrow weighed on her mind. She would pray so fervently, and look so sad.

"The spring came that year, and we were out in the fields a great deal, and the Señorita walked by very often with the little boy, the Señor's son. Oh, but I loved him, Caro. With his golden hair and blue eyes he looked like an angel of God.

"Tell me a story, Santos,' he would say, and I told him long stories of the blessed saints, and sometimes, mounted on his little donkey, I would take him up to the mountain where the good Franciscan fathers in by-gone days had erected a shrine to our Lady. It was just a niche, cut in the stone of an abandoned quarry, and within the niche stood the figure of the Madre, that one of the Fathers who was an artist, had carved and placed there for the love of God and His Blessed Mother. Near by was a small adobe house, and next to it a shed that the quarrymen used for their tools before the place was deserted. Weeds and shrubs grew out of the crevices in the rocks, and long green lizards darted hither and thither over the stones. Back of the quarry was a stream of water that lower down became the river, and so it was that we always called this shrine 'Our Lady of Guadalupe.' But that you know, Caro.

"We used to sit there, the boy and I-they called him the 'Little Son' at home-and often he would jump up and pick bunches of the wild flowers that grew everywhere, and lay them on the shrine of our Blessed Lady.

"I worked for his father in those days, a good master he was-God rest his soul-and liberal; but never the same after the Señorita died. But now I am anticipating.

"It was one day in the month of the Holy Angels, Rosary Sunday had come and gone, the harvest was good, and the men and women had been out in the fields all day picking cotton. It was toward evening when the train from the city came in, and I had gone to the station to look for a package my master expected; but something else came by that train, Caro.

"I saw him at once, a handsome man, with a face that went to the heart of you, and a voice clear and full. I heard him ask for the Señor, and I stepped forward and told him I was the Señor's man. He smiled, as I took his bag and we mounted the hill together. asked me about the country and harvest, and from that day we were good friends.

He

"As we drew near the house, the little master espied us and raised a shout. It had rained that night and the ground was not yet dry, so as he jumped off the gallery he slipped and fell in the mud, and I picked him up, looking like a glorious bespattered angel. He struggled to his feet and ran toward the young Señor, but he did not seem to see him, though I found afterward he loved children—and then I turned and saw the Señorita Lénore.

"She stood up on the gallery, dressed all in some soft white stuff, with the evening sun behind her, shining like a flame; and in her eyes was the most tender light, like the blue in the sky after the sun goes down.

"John,' she said, and the Señor advanced, straight and tall, with his hat in his hand, and he bent low as if he reverenced her, and what followed I did not hear, for I turned and went quickly away.

"And then came many days, when everyone seemed happy. My master brightened up, and the good Señora, his wife, seemed almost free from care, while the little master was with the young Señor everywhere.

"But best of all, it was to see the Señorita Lénore. On Sundays he went with her to Mass, and I would watch her pure face and her clasped hands raised in prayer. I knew all her prayers were for him.

In those days I am afraid God and the Blessed Mother had very few Paters and Aves from me when I knelt at Mass, and yet I think all that time my heart was one great prayer.

"There came one day, the last of October, when the myriads of holy angels were just about to give place to the great company of the blessed Saints- Hallow E'en,' the Señor Americano called it-and indeed it was a hallowed night. That morning my little master wanted to ride up the mountain on his donkey. It was only one of many trips around the country, he on his donkey and I on foot, which we took together. We started off with the sun shining and the birds singing, so gay we were that we did not notice the sun had presently disappeared, and some dark clouds had risen on the horizon. It was only when we were within sight of the deserted hut, near the Shrine of Our Lady of Guadalupe, that I saw a storm was coming, and I was only thankful on my little master's account that we could so easily have a safe shelter. I whipped up the donkey, who did not require much urging this time, and in a moment we were under the shed, and then the heavens opened and down came the rain in a torrent. knew the hut was locked, and as the shed was wide and gave us a shelter from the rain, I decided to stay there and it was well that I did, as you will see, Caro.

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The shed was built up close to the abandoned hut, but there was no window on that side. On the farther wall, that faced the path up the mountain, was a door and two windows, the door being locked, as I said. I think we had only been under the shed about two minutes when I was surprised to hear a noise, as of a window being raised, and then the sound of voices, mingled with the rustle of skirts, and then I made out that it was the Señorita Lénore, and the young visitor Señor John. Give me your hand,' he said, and then followed a noise of climbing, and presently they were both through the window and in the hut.

"At least we are safe here from a wetting,' said the Señorita, 'another five minutes and we would both have been drenched to the skin.' A peal of thunder just then drowned their voices, and the lightning flashed so wildly that I crossed myself, and the little master who was at the other end of the long shed clasped his hands as if in prayer, though he was ever a brave boy. I saw that he had not heard the voices, so I went over and joined him, as indeed I did not want to hear any more myself if I could help it. I knew those two had something to settle with each other, and some instinct told me that now

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