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not be rid of the notion that he played tricks still. In his childhood she had had no doubt but that he would come to grief; but at school, instead of being punished and expelled, as she expected him to be, he acquired some fame; for diligence, and was a favourite both with boys and masters. “Ah,” she thought to herself, “some day they will find out their mistake.”

His school days ended, he was ordained deacon; at which Hannah shook her head more solemnly, and said in her heart, “ Alas! our pastors must have been struck with spiritual blindness to admit that scamp into holy orders.” Her astonishment and horror grew when, as time passed, he became a priest, an archimandrite, a bishop, and at last ascended the patriarchal throne. She felt bitterly the humiliation, when she met him in the street, of having to bend and kiss his hand, although she could see in his eye that mischievous twinkle which she had learnt to associate with his tricks. However, she said to herself, “Here on earth, naturally, mistakes are made, but in heaven they will be corrected.”

Hannah died in the odour of sanctity, and her soul was wafted to the gate of heaven, where Mar Bûtrus^[1] sits with the keys to admit the worthy. She timidly knocked for admission. “Who is there?” said Mar Bûtrus, looking out of the machicolated window above the gate. “Ah! Another redeemed soul! Your name, my daughter?” “Your servant, Hannah,” was the meek rejoinder.