so earnest, and yet the people are so unbelieving. It seems indeed as if the priceless pearl of our Holy Father were cast before the swine.”
Father Meilge laid his hand upon the young priest’s shoulder. “Thou art still unpractised in patience, for it is not a mark of youth. Thou art grieved, my brother, that our work seems so slow.”
“But see, Father Meilge, when Patrick came to Ireland, how surely, how swiftly, they received the faith. But this terrible land of blood! The poor king hath even tried by persecution to hurry the conversion of his land. He is so anxious for all Norway to be Christian. Now the heathens slay the Christians when they can. It was far otherwise when the gospel came to our land.”
Father Meilge did not answer at once, but as Father Tuathal was speaking, the scene before him melted away. Again he stood on the plains of Leinster and listened to his convent bells. A deep longing for his own fair land came over him in a rush of tenderness. He was faint and tired, heart-sick of this wild land. Then he remembered the vow that bound his life to preach the message of Christ to the heathen. He turned to Father Tuathal. “My brother, we must not think too long or with too great tenderness of our own land, lest our hearts fail us in this stern region.”
Even as he spoke, a faintness came over his own strong spirit. Out of the depths of his longing heart
