Here we have another exciting work of Catholic fiction by Father Finn. This book begins: "GET down," said a harsh voice. "Oh, I say, pa, I can't see my hand in front of my face. It's as dark as pitch." The youthful objector had good reason for his statements. Seated beside his father in an \ automobile, which coincidently with the going out of the headlight had come to a full stop, he was looking out into darkness unrelieved by moon or midnight star. In the light that had just gone out he had seen the road before them narrowing apparently to a cow-path with huge trees and thick undergro, vth on either side. The occupants of the machine had been speeding for full two Hours, starting from a strange village, the name and the situation of which the boy did not know. He was long accustomed to the darkness of a room; but in the open, far from familiar sights, his ears shocked by the weird shriek of the owl and the cries of unknown birds of the night, it is no wonder that the lad became more than a trifle uneasy. He put his hand, as he ceased speaking, caressingly upon his father's shoulder. With rude and unnatural violence the man caught the boy's arnl and threw it off. "Don't be a baby, Bob. Get out, I say." As he spoke, the man seized the boy by the shoulders and almost threw him out. The boy stumbled as he touched the ground and fell. "Ouch I" he cried, and slowly picked himself up. "Now you needn't pretend you're hurt," cried the elder, harshly, as with stiff awkwardness he alighted from the machine. "I want no more baby acts." "I don't have to pretend, pa; I've got a bruise on my knee, and it hurts like fun."