At 1317 North College street, in the city of Decatur, Illinois, there is a home-like two story house with pretty surroundings where your correspondent found a heart-interest story unsurpassed even in the annals of modern fiction. The story of a little grey-haired mother with aching heart and eyes dimmed with tears and lonely vigils. The story of a girl who in the full bloom of womanhood went away one night and never came back. The story of a young brother with his life marred by a nameless sorrow. The story of a father who goes about with troubled eyes and an awful dread in his heart.

November 11th, 1910, Fern Reeve stole stealthily from her home by night and led by some strange will-'o-the-wisp fled away from her home through the darkness until she reached the grim and forbidding walls of the convent of the Ursuline Sisters at Alton, Illinois, and there buried the brightest and joyousness and laughter of her young life---shall we say forever?

This is one of the most mysterious cases that your correspondent has ever encountered. But here our questions and our surmises are met by mystery.

The early afternoon sunshine streamed golden on the green grass and the flower beds that day in July when your correspondent called at this old fashioned home. He was met at the door by Mrs. Reeve, rather a slender, grey-haired woman of middle age, of a kindly, motherly way, with a dumb look of suffering in her once bright but now tear-dimmed eyes. With quaint and goodly courtesy she showed me into the little parlor and we sat and talked on unimportant subjects a few moments.

Then I said, "Mrs. Reeve, I represent The Menace and they have sent me here to visit you in your hour of trouble and if there is a possibility of releasing your daughter from her awful fate they have instructed me to spare no effort to do so."

Old fashioned things, old wine and old friends are precious in this world. In sympathy I turned my head and gazed out of the window at the flowers in the yard as Mrs. Reeve silently shed the old fashioned tears that spoke of a mother's suffering heart. And then she told me the story. Sad. Pitiful. Strange! As she told me this story I looked at the old fashioned pictures on the walls, at the old fashioned but comfortable furniture, and the old fashioned flowers nodding gaily in the summer sunshine outside. For some way when I looked into that old fashioned, tear stained, wrinkled and motherly face my heart hurt and tears came to my own eyes. "Fern," she said, "was always a good girl. She was always quiet and loved her home and loved her church, for she was a member of our own church, that is, the Methodist. She loved her young friends and we gave her every opportunity that we could afford. There is her piano---untouched, there is her music---unsung, there are her books---unread. Oh, I remember how often we used to have parties and gatherings of the young folks of her set and of our church! And I did everything

that a mother could do to make home happy for Fern. She seemed to love her home so; Fern seemed to be so happy here and she simply idolized her loved ones, especially her little sister.

"Fern was always an obedient girl and, do you know, Mr. Buss, that we were so happy in our home life that all of the dark sorrows of the last two years seem to me like some horrible nightmare! Oh! I am so glad that The Menace with its great power and its vast army of readers has sent you to us to help us now."

The Menace man was still gazing out of the window as his voice was just a little husky as he said, "Yes, Mrs. Reeve, go on---tell me the whole story. The Menace is with you heart and hand in your trouble."

"The first that I noticed about two years ago Fern began to act strangely. She seemed to want to be by herself all the time. She would sit in a chair in the corner for two or three hours in the evening time, and sometimes when her playful little sister wanted to romp with her she would push her away and say that she wanted to be left alone. This was so unusual that I would ask Fern if she were not feeling well and she would say, 'No, Mother, I am not well.' And then I noticed that she seemed to be studying some little books or pamphlets a greater part of the time and when she was not reading or studying these, she seemed to be sitting and thinking moodily.

"And then, one sad, dark night, Fern did not come home to supper---ten o' clock---eleven o' clock---midnight came and still I sat and waited and prayed and wondered---and her father and brother searched the town.

"The next day I received a note mailed from a hotel here in town in Fern's handwriting stated that she had gone to the convent to be a 'bride of Jesus

Christ,' that I must not worry about her, that He 'had taken her out of the world!'

"No tongue can tell how I suffered when I read that note. We found afterwards that the young man with whom she had been keeping company was a Catholic, that he and the priests and nuns had schemed to steal her away from us."

There was a pause, the birds flitted to and fro in the sunshine in the trees outside and a beautiful lily nodded its head at me through the window as the mother's heart-broken sobs fell on my ears.

"But," said I, "she went of her own free will, did she not, and how can they change her mind and her life so---for you say that she was born and reared a Protestant and was a member of your own First Methodist church here in Decatur?"

"Yes, that is all true, Mr. Buss," said the mother, "and that is what we cannot understand ourselves. I have always thought that she was hypnotized or that they had cast some strange spell of the Devil himself over Fern's mind, for since then I have seen her in the convent a few times and she has never seemed like the same girl, she has never seemed to be happy. I found out afterwards that for months and months these Catholics had been coaxing and persuading Fern to leave home and join the Catholic church. She told me that the Catholics told her that there was no other religion in the world outside the Catholic church that could save her soul from Hell! I cannot understand the awful hold, the terrible grip that they seem to have on poor Fern's body and soul. The last time that I called to see 'Father' Murphy, of St. Patrick's church here in Decatur, I told him I would get her out if I had to get the law!

"'Law!' said he, 'Law? Why, go to law! I would like to go to law with you! I will law you until you

are all in Purgatory but you will never get that girl by law!'

"One time when I visited Fern in the convent at Alton I took a friend with me and instead of talking to my daughter alone, the nuns came in and filled the room. I asked the 'Mother Superior' to explain to me what a convent was. She cried, 'That is an insult,' and shoved me out of the door and slammed the door behind me!"

"Mrs. Reeve," said I, "how old is Fern?"

Said the mother brokenly through her tears, "Fern is twenty-five years old."

Then came one of the most difficult tasks that I have ever had to perform, for truth forced me to say kindly, gently but firmly,---though my heart ached as I said the words and saw the slender mother's shoulders shaken again by the storm of sorrow that they arouse,---

"Mrs. Reeve, you don't know how much it hurts me to tell you, but as your daughter is of age, and as according to these letters that you have shown me she is staying in the convent of her own free will and choice, The Menace has no possible means of restoring her to you."

The little mother had gotten out the paste-board box that contained all the precious little relics of Fern's girlhood, and her letters written from the convent. Among the letters were a number of gaudy, gaily colored cards sent at various times to the father, and mother, and the little sister and brother. Most of the cards have to do with the "Sacred Heart of Jesus," and some of them show the Man of Sorrows holding His own heart in His hand with a fire burning at the top of it and a cross emits the flames. There is a little poem entitled, "Perfect Trust," which might have originated from some kindergarten. There is another card for the father in which our promises

for three hundred days' "indulgence" for each time the verse, "Sacred Heart of Jesus, Thy Kingdom come" is repeated. There are two aluminum medals, called "sacred relics," to be worn as secret charms. All of these things the mother gave me as souvenirs. The cards and letters now are not signed "Fern Reeve," but "Sister M. Olivia!" The last letter that Fern Reeve wrote to her mother we herewith reproduce as we consider it a curiosity, written by one still a member of the Methodist church:---

"Ursuline Novitiate of The Sacred Heart.

"Alton, Ill., June 9, 1912.

Dear Mother:---

"Here is summer time again. We are sure of it because we have been picking strawberries and cherries. The cherry trees are full of cherries. We picked the strawberries almost every evening. We have great times after supper picking berries, weeding flower beds, cutting grass, and, most important of all, putting the chickens to bed. We have twenty-seven ducks. We have added to our family two rabbits. One is tan and the other is white. Ted, the dog, watches the rabbits all the time.

"On Sunday evening we nearly always take a walk. It is so nice to walk over the hills. This is an especially pleasant time of year. June is the month of dedication to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. We have devotion to the Sacred Heart everyday.

"It looks rainy now. I hope it will not rain so we can take a walk after supper. We do have such good times. I don't see how girls can stay in the world when we are so happy in the Convent. (!)

"If they knew the happiness of the Convent, half the world would be in the Convent. (!!)

"Just think, I will soon be a year old. Only five weeks from Thursday. Just a year from now I will be thinking about taking my vows, if nothing happens.

How sweet it must be to be a spouse of Jesus Christ. The time passes so quickly that it will be gone before we know it.

"I must close now as it is time for vespers. After vespers I must get my lessons. Sister Felicitas has her little niece here. She is so sweet. Just like a big doll. Her name is Felicitas too.

"Well, I must close now, with love to all.

"SR. MARY OLIVIA,

(FERN REEVE.)

"P. S. Lots of love to 'Doll Baby.'"

I shall never forget the evening meal that I ate in the home of Fern Reeve. I cannot forget the now vacant chair, the tears of the mother, the loneliness of the little sister, the silence of the brother, the lines about the father's mouth. I cannot forget the little ornaments, dear to the heart of girlhood, in a little old fashioned bedroom with the door open. In my own room that night my thoughts were of a great, black-walled convent overlooking the silent Father of Waters on the hill in Alton---of secret chambers of horror, black with darkness---of lustful, round-paunched priests in black mother-hubbards flitting here and there silently,---but most of all, of a little, old fashioned, grey haired mother, on her knees praying to the Father, who "heareth in secret" that with His mighty hand He would protect Fern Reeve.

By previous appointment, the other evening I spent nearly four hours with Jeremiah J. Crowley, otherwise

known as the famous "Father" Crowley, formerly of Chicago. "Father" Crowley is probably the best known, best loved and yet most bitterly hated priest of the Catholic faith in the United States today. He occupies a unique position, for he is the only priest who has ever withdrawn from Romanism without being canonically excommunicated; his position appears still more strange when we understand that today he numbers as his friends many thousands of the Catholic faithful and countless loyal friends among the Protestants.

After four years of seclusion "Father" Crowley has again stepped into the lime light. During this seclusion he was preparing the manuscript for probably the greatest book of this age on the subject of Romanism---a book that is as unique and powerful as the personality of the author.

It was evening time and over this great city thousands of lights began to twinkle here and there as I knocked at the door of the third floor flat in the Brittany building, which is the temporary home of this man of many mysteries---mysteries the knowledge of which makes him the most dangerous foe that Catholicism has perhaps in this whole city. A huge human form filled the door. A pair of Irish blue eyes looked into mine, and a great warm hand clasped my own, as I said, "You are 'Father' Crowley, I believe, and I am The Menace correspondent. I want to talk to you, if you have the time this evening, and what you say will be read by The Menace army three thousand strong."

With old fashioned Celtic hospitality he opened the door widely and almost pulled me into the room as he said, "Sure I have read The Menace again and again. I love to read it. It is one of God's fearless and brave and most powerful messengers against the curse of Rome."

Much of the ensuing conversation I must omit here because of discretion and for lack of space, but the following fragments contain some of the salient points that struck me forcibly.

"Mr. Crowley, how long were you a priest?" I asked.

"For twenty-one years, sir," he replied.

"And where were you educated?"

"I was born and educated in Ireland. My father spent thousands of dollars on my life work---that is, in education and preparation."

I looked curiously about the room in which we sat; on every side were books and books and books and books and manuscripts---truly, here was the abode of a tireless student; otherwise the furnishings were plain, home-like and comfortable. From the books my eyes rested searchingly upon the man sitting quietly just across the table from me and stared in spite of myself in admiration at his splendid physique. "Father" Crowley is a big man in every way. Physically he looks fit to compete in almost any contest calling for endurance and sheer strength. He stands six feet and three inches in height and his broad and powerfully built in proportion. He weighs two hundred and sixty pounds, and yet is not fleshy. His record is one of utter fearlessness. "Father" Crowley is about fifty-four years old, his face is rutty and his complexion shows perfect health. His hair, once auburn, is now whitening. His voice has that soft, musically lilt through which vibrate tones that betoken power---the voice of the educated and refined Irish born, of the higher class. The straight level glance of his smiling blue eyes carries a suggestion of the magnetic personality of the man Jeremiah J. Crowley.

But he was speaking now, earnestly as if he would carry the message to a sleeping world. "Do you know, Mr. Buss, that Rome wins because the Protestant

people are asleep?" And here he looked me full in the eyes as he continued, "You know I played their game for twenty one years, God forgive me! I was behind the curtains and my whole life then was a constant and bitter fight against the awful blackness and the night of Hell, of superstition and idolatry and the blind fear that enslaves all behind those curtains---"

"But, Mr. Crowley," said I, "I understand, in fact we know that Rome has been arming herself and secretly preparing for war. I want to ask you, for I realize the cunning both of the leaders of the Romish church and of the Jesuits, how these shrewd leaders can make the awful blunder of deliberately seeking to rule or master seventy five million free-born, non-Catholic American citizens by arraying against them less than fifteen millions of foreign-blooded, superstition-ridden traitors?"

This question went home. The great hands clasped and unclasped, the vibrant voice lost some of its softness but gained much in earnestness and some of the smile went out of his eyes as Mr. Crowley answered, "Rome's leaders are wise but it is only the inferior wisdom of the man who takes advantage of those who are asleep or who are too cowardly to resist. Sometimes I laugh when I hear Protestant folk expressing their fears that we may have a Catholic mayor, or a Catholic governor or even some day a Catholic president!

"Why, can't you see that Rome is too wise to work that way? She works through Protestant puppets, it may be a mayor or governor, a president, but he is a puppet. She never does the obvious thing. But she works through Protestant puppets! He is usually a prominent Methodist or Presbyterian or Baptist---he goes to church on Sunday and the goody-goody, sleeping Protestant people shout their praises, saying,

'Thank God, we have a Protestant in office over us, Glory Hallelujah!'

"And Monday morning the priest pulls the string and the puppet dances!"

"No, Mr. Buss, tell The Menace army that the leaders of Romanism are not wiser today than they have ever been in the world's history---they have lost in the battle for rulership in every nation---in every country---in every age---they will lose this battle in this country, but they will be desperate losers.

"This is Rome's last stand. If she cannot rule she will try to ruin. She cannot stand being photographed and published, and when her bars are broken, when her locks are smashed to fragments, when her walls of secrecy and superstition that hide her dark deeds are broken down, she will die and die forever!

"Your work and my work is the same. We must let in the sunlight of God's love and of His eternal justice; only this will prevent the blackest, bloodiest drama in the history of the world in this fair America of ours!"

Mr. Crowley's new book, which is just published, entitled, "Romanism, A Menace To The Nation," is one of the most powerful arraignments of Rome that your correspondent has ever seen. During our conversation Mr. Crowley showed me a copy of this book fresh from the binders.

"Here is one sentence," said Mr. Crowley earnestly, "that sums up the whole seven hundred pages of the book in a nutshell: 'Romanism, even when protected by the State, cannot stand being photographed and published to the world.'" Cincinnati, July 12, 1912.

The old unreasoning hatred of Rome has given place to an equally unreasoning sentimentalism, which believes, or affects to believe, that the spirit of Rome has changed, that the Roman church is now content to share equal rights and liberties with other religious bodies, that the Papacy has ceased to be an obstacle to progress and a menace to liberty. These recent events should remind those who live in such illusions that the Roman church is what it has been for centuries, a narrow and intolerant sect, acquiescing in religious liberty an equality only when and where it is not strong enough to demand privilege, refraining from physical persecution only because it has not the power to use it, but persecuting as ruthlessly as ever by all means that are still in its power. The practical conclusion is not that we should persecute the Roman church but that the facts about its history and its present actions should be made as widely known as possible, that every legitimate means should be used to combat its influence in politics, in the press, and in the schools of the nation.

---Robert Dell, Catholic Journalist, in The London Times.

Chapter 3