I  sent  you  "The  Sacristans"  this  morning,  and  a
cutting  from  a  Yankee  paper  calling  it  a  very  fine  story.
I  remember,  when  I  wrote  it,  thinking  it  a  good  bit  of
work,  but  I  was  too  lazy  to  read  it  again  before  sending
it  to  the  Catholic  World,  and  entirely  forgot  what  it  is
about.  I  think  I  remember  that  it  was  rather  grim  and
tragic.
You  write  about  my  unselfishness  —  well,  I  always
think  one  can  (if  one  has  any  sense)  know  one's  own
faults  and  their  opposites  as  well  as  anyone  else  can
know  them:  and  I  don't  think  I  am  selfish,  only  I  demand
affection  for  affection,  and  when  I  fail  to  get  it,  then  I
am  sore  and  perhaps  unreasonable.  What  I  mean  is
this  —  I  expect  I  try  to  buy  affection  by  acts  of  what
people  call  unselfishness,  and  real  unselfishness  wants
nothing,  not  even  affection  or  gratitude.
Though  I  told  you  that  to-day's  heat  is  the  sort  I
dislike,  it  has  not  tried  me  at  all,  a  proof  that  I  am  well.
I  have  not,  for  a  long  time  now,  had  any  more  of  that
tired,  languid  feeling.
F.  returned  to  the  charge  to-day  about  trying  to  make
me  go  to  pontificate  vespers  for  the  nuns  at  his  hospital
to-morrow.  I  fancy  he  had  promised  to  make  me  do  it,
and  his  obstinacy  was  engaged!  Three  times  he  returned
to  the  charge,  and  at  last  he  said,  "You  don't  know  how
much  I  am  annoyed  at  your  continued  refusal."  Then
I  said,  "My  dear  boy:  I  do  not  want  to  tell  you  how  much
it  annoys  me  that  you  will  continue  to  make  me  refuse.
