As he stood with us there on that bleak upland, he seemed a pathetic, symbolic figure, lonely standard-bearer of the spirit in one of the dreary colonies of that indomitable church that carries her mystic sacraments even into the waste places and borders of the world.

The romance of Rome was far away beyond that horizon on which he turned his wistful look; here was its hard work, its daily prose.

But he turned proudly to the great pile that loomed over us.

We had commented on its size in so remote a parish.
"Yes, I am proud of our people," he said.

"It is greatly to their credit." One could not help silently wondering that the spiritual needs of this handful of lonely houses should demand so ambitious a structure.
But the symbols of the soul can never be too impressive.