Will you do so now next time you say a black Mass? This
is a wretched letter, and it doesn't succeed in the least in
expressing what I owe to you and what I already owe to Father
Rowley. I used to think that the Sacred Heart was a rather material
device for attracting the multitude, but I'm beginning to realize
in the atmosphere of St. Agnes' that it is a gloriously simple
devotion and that it is human nature's attempt to express the
inexpressible. I'll write to you again next week. Please give my
love to everybody at the Rectory.
Always your most affectionate
Mark.
Father Rowley had been at St. Agnes' seven or eight years when Mark
found himself attached to the Mission, in which time he had transformed
the district completely. It was a small parish (actually of course it
was not a parish at all, although it was fast qualifying to become one)
of something over a thousand small houses, few of which were less than a
century old. The streets were narrow and crooked, mostly named after
bygone admirals or forgotten sea-fights; the romantic and picturesque
quarter of a great naval port to the casual glance of a passer-by, but
heartbreaking to any except the most courageous resident on account of
its overcrowded and tumbledown condition.
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