"She is alive still?"
"Oh, yes! I often fancy she will never die!"
There was a silence of some minutes. Morgana rose, and crossing over to the old well, studied the crimson passion-flowers which twined about it, with almost loving scrutiny.
"How beautiful they are!" she said—"And they seem to serve no purpose save that of simple beauty!"
"That is enough for many of God's creatures"—said Aloysius—"To give joy and re-create joy is the mission of perfection."
She looked at him wistfully.
"Alas, poor me!" she sighed—"I can neither give joy nor create it!"
"Not even with all your wealth?"
"Not even with all my wealth!" she echoed. "Surely you—a priest—know what a delusion wealth really is so far as happiness goes?—mere happiness? course you can buy everything with it—and there's the trouble! When everything is bought there's nothing left! And if you try to help the poor they resent it—they think you are doing it because you are afraid of them! Perhaps the worst of all things to do is to help artists—artists of every kind!—for THEY say you want to advertise yourself as a 'generous patron'! Oh, I've tried it all and it's no use. I was just crazy to help all the scientists,—once!—but they argued and quarrelled so much as to which 'society' deserved most money that I dropped the whole offer, and started 'scientising' myself. There is one man I tried to lift out of his brain-bog,—but he would have none of me, and he is still in his bog!"
"Oh! There is one man!" said Aloysius, with a smile.