_The City and the World_and Other Stories

BY

FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY

Author of

"The Last Battle of the Gods, " "Letters to Jack. ""The Book of Red and Yellow. " Etc. , Etc. 

SECOND EDITION

EXTENSION PRESS223 W. Jackson BoulevardCHICAGO

1913

PREFACE

These stories were not written at one time, nor were they intendedfor publication in book form. For the most part they werecontributions to _Extension Magazine_, of which the author is Editor, and which is, above all, a missionary publication. Most of them, therefore, were intended primarily to be appeals, as well as stories. In fact, there was not even a remote idea in the author's mind when hewrote them that some day they might be introduced to other readersthan those reached by the magazine itself. In fact, he might almostsay that the real object of most of the stories was to present aCatholic missionary appeal in a new way. Apparently the storiessucceeded in doing that, and a few of them were made up separately inbooklets and used for the propaganda work of The Catholic ChurchExtension Society. Then came a demand for the collection, so thewriter consented to allow the stories to appear in book form; hopingthat, thus gathered together, his little appeals for what he considersthe greatest cause in the world may win a few new friends to the ideaswhich gave them life and name. 

FRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY. 

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, July 30, 1913. 

[Illustration: "Father Ramoni suddenly felt his joy congealing into acold fear. "]

 CONTENTS

 TITLES Page

The City and the World 1The Flaming Cross 20The Vicar-General 44The Resurrection of Alta 53The Man with a Dead Soul 67The Autobiography of a Dollar 74Le Braillard de la Magdeleine 82The Legend of Deschamps 84The Thousand Dollar Note 89The Occasion 109The Yankee Tramp 119How Father Tom Connolly Began to Be a Saint 127The Unbroken Seal 136Mac of the Island 144

THE CITY AND THE WORLD

Father Denfili, old and blind, telling his beads in the corner of thecloister garden, sighed. Father Tomasso, who had brought him from hisconfessional in the great church to the bench where day after day hekept his sightless vigil over the pond of the goldfish, turned back atthe sound, then, seeing the peace of Father Denfili's face, thought hemust have fancied the sigh. For sadness came alien to the littlegarden of the Community of San Ambrogio on Via Paoli, a lustrous gemof a little garden under its square of Roman sky. The dripping of thetiny fountain, tinkling like a bit of familiar music, and the swellingtones of the organ, drifting over the flowers that clustered beneaththe statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, so merged their murmurings into thepeacefulness of San Ambrogio, that Father Tomasso, just from thenovitiate, felt intensely that he knew he must have dreamed FatherDenfili's sigh. For what could trouble the old man here in SanAmbrogio on this, the greatest day of the Community?

For to-day Father Ramoni had returned to Rome. Even as Father Tomassopassed the fountain a group of Fathers and novices were gatheringaround one of the younger priests, who still wore his fereoula andwide-brimmed hat, just as he had entered from Via Paoli. Thenewcomer's eyes traveled joyously over his breathless audience, calling Father Tomasso to join in hearing his news. 

"Yes, it is true, " he was saying. "I have just come from the audience. Father General and Father Ramoni stopped to call at the Secretariateof State, but I came straight home to tell you. His Holiness was mostkind, and Father Ramoni was not a mite abashed, even in the presenceof the Pope. When he knelt down the Holy Father raised him up and gavehim a seat. 'Tell me all about your wonderful people and yourwonderful work, ' he said. And Father Ramoni told him of the thousandshe had converted and how easy it was, with the blessing of God, to doso much. The Holy Father asked him every manner of question. He wasfull of enthusiasm for the great things our Father Ramoni has done. Heis the greatest man in Rome to-day, is Ramoni. He will be honored bythe Holy See. The Pope showed it plainly. This is a red-letter day forour Community. " The little priest paused for breath, then hastened on. "Rome knows that our Father Ramoni has come back, " he cried, "and Romehas not forgotten ten years ago. "

"Was it ten years that Father Ramoni passed in South America?" a tallnovice asked Father Tomasso. 

"Ten years, " said Father Tomasso. "He was the great preacher of Romewhen the old General"--he nodded toward the cloister corner whereFather Denfili prayed--"sent him away from Rome. No one knew why. Hisfame was at its height. Men and women of all the city crowded thechurch to listen to him, and he was but thirty-four years old. ButFather Denfili sent him away to Marqua, commanding the Superior of ourOrder out there to send him to those far-off mountain people of whomthe papers were telling at that time. I did not know Father Romaniwell. I was a novice at the time. But I knew that he did not want togo from Rome; though, being a good religious, he obeyed. Now, see whathas happened. He has converted over one-third of that people, and therest are only waiting for missionaries. "

"And the work is all Father Ramoni's?" the novice asked. 

"All. " Father Tomasso drew him a little farther from the group thatstill listened to the little priest who had come from the Vatican. "Father Ramoni found that the people had many Christian traditions andwere almost white; but it was he who instilled the Faith in theirhearts. There must be thirty of our Fathers in Marqua now, " hecontinued proudly, "and sooner or later, all novices will have to goout there. Father Ramoni has made a splendid Prefect-Apostolic. Nowonder they have summoned him to Rome for consultation. I haveheard"--he lowered his voice as he glanced over his shoulder to whereFather Denfili sat on the bench by the pond--"that it is certain thatMarqua is to be made a Province, with an archbishop and two bishops. There is a seminary in Marqua, even now, and they are training some ofthe natives to be catechists. I tell you, Brother Luigi, missionaryhistory has never chronicled such wonders as our Father Ramoni haswrought. "

From behind them came the rising voice of the little priest, bubblinginto laughter. "And as I came through the Pincio all that I heard washis name. I had to wait for a duchessa's carriage to pass. She wastelling an American woman of the times when Father Ramoni had preachedat San Carlo. 'His words would convert a Hindu, ' she was saying. Andthe Marchesi di San Quevo leaned from his horse to tell me that he hadheard that Father Ramoni will be one of the Cardinals of the nextConsistory. Is it not wonderful?"

The murmur of their responses went across the garden to old FatherDenfili. Father Tomasso, crossing the path with the novice, suddenlysaw a strange look of pain on the old priest's face, and startedtoward him just as the gate to the cloister garden swung back, revealing a picture that held him waiting. Four men--a great Romanprelate, the General of San Ambrogio, Father Ramoni and Father Pietro, Ramoni's secretary--were coming into the garden. Of the four FatherRamoni stood out in the center of the group as vividly as if asearchlight were playing on his magnificent bigness. His deep blackeyes, set in a face whose strength had been emphasized by its exposureto sun and wind, gleamed joyous with his mood. His mouth, large, expressive, the plastic mouth of the orator, was curving into a smileas he gave heed to the speech of the prelate beside him. Once he shookhis head as the great man, oblivious of their coming before a crowd ofintent watchers, continued the words he had been saying on Via Paoli. 

"And the Holy See is about to make your Marqua into a Province. Is itnot wonderful, Father Ramoni, that you will go back with that gift tothe people you converted? And yet to me it is more wonderful that youwish to go back. Why do you not stay here? You, a Roman, wouldadvance. "

"Not now, Monsignore, " the missionary answered quickly. They werepassing the group near the fountain, going toward the bench whereFather Denfili sat. Ramoni's secretary, a thin, serious-visaged priestof about the same age as his Superior, with bald head and timid, shrinking eyes, took with the greatest deference the cloak and hatFather Ramoni handed to him. Then he fell back of the old General. The prelate answered Ramoni. "But you are right, of course, " headmitted. "It is best that you return. The Church needs you there now. But later on--_chi lo sa_? You are to preach Sunday afternoon at SanCarlo? I shall be there to hear you. So will all Rome, I suppose. Ah, you do well here! '_Filius urbis et orbis_--son of the city and theworld. ' It's a great title, Ramoni!"

They had come in front of the bench where Father Denfili told hisbeads. The prelate turned to the old General of San Ambrogio withdeference. "Is it not so, Father?" he asked. But Father Denfili raisedhis sightless eyes as if he sought to focus them upon the group beforehim. Father Ramoni, laughingly dissenting, suddenly felt his joycongealing into a cold fear that bound his heart. He turned awayangrily, then recovered himself in time. Father Denfili was no longeron the bench beside the pond. He was groping his way back to thechapel. 

It was a month before the Consistory met to nominate the new hierarchyfor Marqua. It had been expected that the first meeting would end indecisive action and that, immediately afterward, the great missionaryof the Community of San Ambrogio would return with increased authorityand dignity to his charge. But something--one of those mysterious"somethings" peculiar to Rome--had happened, and the nominations werepostponed. 

In the month that Father Ramoni remained in Rome he had tasted thefruits of his old popular success. On his first Sunday at home hepreached in San Carlo as well as ever--better than ever. And the awedcrowd he looked down on at the end of his sermon took away from thechurch the tidings of his greater power. From that time nearly everymoment was taken by the demands of people of position and authority, who wished to make the most of him before he went back to Marqua. Hescarcely saw his brethren at all, except after his Mass, when he wentto the refectory for his morning coffee. He had no time to loiter inthe garden, and the story of the conversion of the people of Marquawas left to the quiet Fr. Pietro, who told the splendid tales of hisSuperior's great work, till Father Tomasso and Brother Luigi prayed tobe given the opportunity to be Ramoni's servants in the far-away landof the western world. But, if Ramoni was but seldom in the cloister, he did not avoid Father Denfili. The old blind priest seemed to meethim everywhere, in the afternoons on the Pincio, in the churches wherehe preached, in the subdued crowds at ecclesiastical assemblies. OnceRamoni caught a glimpse of his face lifted toward him during aconference; and a remembrance of that old look in the cloister gardengave him the sensation of belief that the old General could see, eventhough Ramoni himself, was the only one whom he saw. 

On the day the letter from the Vatican came, Father Ramoni, detainedin the cloister by the expected visit of a prelate who had expressedhis desire to meet the missionary of Marqua, passed Father Denfili onhis way to the reception-room. While Father Ramoni, summoning hissecretary to bring some photographs for better explanation of theSouth American missions, went on his way, the blind man groped alongthe wall till he reached the General's office. He had come to the doorwhen he felt that undercurrent of anxiety which showed itself on thewhite faces of the General and his assistant, who stood gazing mutelyat the letter the former held. He heard the General call FatherTomasso. "Take this to Father Pietro, my son, " he said. Then helistened to the younger priest's retreating footsteps. 

Father Tomasso, frightened by the unwonted strangeness of theGeneral's tone, carried the atmosphere of tense and troubledexcitement with him when he entered the room the prelate was justleaving. Father Pietro glanced up at him from the table where he wasreturning to their case the photographs of Marqua. Tomasso laid theletter before him and left the room just as Father Ramoni, bidding hisvisitor a gay good-bye, turned back. 

[Illustration: "I can't take it, " he was sobbing, "it's a mistake, aterrible mistake. "]

Father Pietro was taking the letter from its large square envelope. Heread it with puzzled wonder rising to his eyes. Before he came to itsend he was on his feet. 

"No! No!" he cried. "It is impossible. It is a mistake. "

Father Ramoni turned quickly. The man who had been his faithfulservant for ten years in Marqua was very dear to him. "What is amistake, Pietro?" he asked, coming to the table. 

"The Consistory, " Father Pietro stammered, "the Consistory has made amistake. They have done an impossible thing. They have mixed ournames. This letter to the General--this letter--" he pointed to thedocument on the table "--says that I have been made Archbishop ofMarqua. "

Ramoni took the letter. As he read it he knew what Pietro had notknown. The news was genuine. The name signed at the letter's endguaranteed that. Ramoni caught the edge of the table. The pain of theblow gripped him relentlessly and he knew that it was a pain thatwould stay. He had been passed over, ignored, set down for Pietro, whosat weeping beside the table, his head buried in his hands. 

"I can't take it, " he was sobbing; "I am not able. It's a mistake, aterrible mistake. "

Ramoni put his hand on the other man's head. "It is true, Pietro, " hesaid. "You are Archbishop of Marqua. May God bless you!"

But he could say no more. Pietro was still weeping when Ramoni wentaway, crossing the cloister on his way to his cell, where, with thedoor closed behind him, he fought the battle of his soul. 

II. 

In the beginning Ramoni could not think. He sat looking dully at thesoftened tones of the wall, trying to evolve some order of thoughtfrom the chaos into which the shock of his disappointment had plungedhis mind. It was late in the night before the situation began tooutline itself dimly. 

His first thought was, curiously enough, not of himself directly, butof the people out in Marqua who were anxiously looking for his returnas their leader, confident of his appointment to the newArchbishopric. He could not face them as the servant of another man. From the crowd afar his thoughts traveled back to the crowd on thePincio--the crowd that welcomed him as the great missionary. He wouldgo no more to the Pincio, for now they would point him out with thatcynical amusement of the Romans as the man who had been shelved forhis servant. He resented the fate that had uprooted him from Rome tenyears before, sending him to Marqua. He resented the people he hadconverted, Pietro, the Consistory--everything. For that black andbitter night the Church, which he had loved and reverenced, looked tohim like the root of all injustice. The more he thought of the slightthat had been put upon him, the worse it became, till the thoughtarose in him that he would leave the Community, leave Rome, leave itall. After long hours, anger had full sway in the heart of FatherRamoni. 

At midnight he heard the striking of the city's clocks through thewindows, the lattices of which he had forgotten to close. The sound ofthe city brought back to him the words of the great prelate who hadreturned with him to San Ambrogio from his first audience with theHoly Father--"_Filius urbis et orbis_. " How bitterly the city hadtreated him!

A knock sounded at his door. He walked to it and flung it open. Hisanger had come to the overflowing of speech. At first he saw only ahand at the door-casing, groping with a blind man's uncertainty. Thenhe saw the old General. 

In the soul of Ramoni rose an awful revulsion against the old man. Instantly, with a memory of that first day in the cloister garden, ofthose following days that gave him the unexpected, uncanny glimpses ofthe priest, he centered all his bitterness upon Denfili. So fearfulwas his anger as he held it back with the rein of years ofself-control, that he wondered to see Father Denfili smiling. 

"May I enter, my son?" he asked. 

"You may enter. "

The old man groped his way to a chair. Ramoni watched him withglowering rage. When Father Denfili turned his sightless eyes upon himhe did not flinch. 

"You are disappointed, my son?" the old man asked with a gentlenessthat Ramoni could not apprehend, "and you can not sleep?"

Ramoni's anger swept the question aside. "Have you come here, FatherDenfili, " he cried, "to find out how well you have finished thepersecution you began ten years ago? If you have, you may be quiteconsoled. It is finished to-night. " His anger, rushing over the gates, beat down upon the old man, who sat wordless before its flood. It wasa passionate story Ramoni told, a story of years in the novitiate whenthe old man had ever repressed him, a story of checks that had beenput upon him as a preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now ofthis crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told of them all while theold man sat, letting the torrent wear itself out on the rocks ofpatience. Then, after Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke. 

"You did not pray, my son?"

"Pray?" Ramoni's laughter rasped. "How can I pray? My life is ruined. I am ashamed even to meet my brethren in the chapel. "

"And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel, " the old man said. "God, and God alone; even if there be a thousand present. "

"God?" flung back the missionary. "What has He done to me? Do youthink I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it wasnot God who did it--it was you! You interfered with His work. I knowit. "

"I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If He did, then it isright for you. As for me, perhaps I am somewhat responsible. I wasconsulted, and I advised Pietro. "

"Don't call me 'my son, '" cried the other. 

"Is it as bad as that with you?" There was only compassion in the oldvoice. "Yet must I say it--my son. With even more reason than everbefore I must say it to you to-night. "

The old man's thin hands were groping about his girdle to find thebeads that hung down from it. He pulled them up to him and laid thestring across his knees; but the crucifix that he could not see hekept tightly clasped in his hand. His poor, dull, pathetic eyes wereturned to Ramoni who felt again that strange impression that he couldsee, as they fixed on his face and stared straight at him without amovement of their lashes. And Ramoni knew how it was that a man may begiven a finer vision than that of earth, for Father Denfili waslooking where only a saint could look, deep down into the soul ofanother. 

"Son of the city and the world, " he said. "I heard Monsignore call youthat, and he was right. A son of the city and of the world you are;but alas! less of the city than you know, and more of the world thanyou have realized. My son, I am a very old man. Perhaps I have notlong to live; and so it is that I may tell you why I have come to youto-night. " Ramoni started to speak, but the other put out his hand. "Ireceived you, a little boy, into this Community. No one knows youbetter than I do. I saw in you before any one else the gifts that Godhad given you for some great purpose. I saw them budding. I knewbefore any one else knew that some day you would do a great thing, though I did not know what it was that you would do. I was a man withlittle, but I could admire the man who had much. I had no gifts to laybefore Him, yet I, too, wanted to do a great work. I wanted to make_you_ my great work. That was my hope. You are the Apostle of Marqua. I am the Apostle of Ramoni. For that I have lived, always in the fearthat I would be cheated of my reward. "

Ramoni turned to him. "Your reward? I do not understand. "

"My reward, " the old man repeated. "I watched over you, I instructedyou, I prayed for you, I loved you. I tried to teach you by checkingyou, the way to govern yourself. I tried to make a channel in yoursoul that your great genius might not burst its bonds. I knew thatthere was conflict ever within you between your duty to God and whatthe world had to offer you--the old, old conflict between the cityand the world. I always feared it. All unknown to you I watched thefight, and I saw that the world was winning. Then, my son, I sent youto Marqua. "

The old man paused, and his trembling hand wiped away the tears thatstreamed down his face. Ramoni did not move. "I am afraid, my son, "the voice came again, "that you never knew the city--well called theEternal--where with all the evil the world has put within its wallsthe good still shines always. This, my son, is the city of the soul, and you were born in it. It lives only for souls. It has no otherright to existence at all. There is only one royalty that may live inRome. We, who are of the true city, know that. 

"And you, too, might have been of the city. The power of savingthousands was given to you. I prayed only for the power of saving one. I had to send you away, for you were not a Philip Neri. Only a saintmay live to be praised and save himself--in Rome. 

"When you went away, my son, you went away with a sacrifice as yourmerit, your salvation. Of that sacrifice the Church in Marqua wasborn. It will grow on another sacrifice. Ask your heart if you couldmake it? Alas, you can not! Then it will have to grow on Pietro'spain. 

"I have not seen you, for I am blind, but I have heard you. You wantto go back an Archbishop to finish what you say is 'your work. ' Youthink that your people are waiting. You want to bring the splendor ofthe city to the world. My son, the work is not yours. The people arenot yours. The city, the true city, does not know you, for you haveforgotten the spirit of sacrifice. You went out to the world anapostle, and you came back to the city a conqueror, but no longer anapostle. Can't you see that God does not need conquerors?"

The old priest pressed the crucifix tightly against his breast. "Whatwould you take back to Marqua?" he demanded. "Nothing but your purpleand your eloquence. How could you, who have forgotten to pray in themidst of affliction, teach your people how to pray in the midst oftheir sorrows? Marqua does not need you, for Marqua needs the man youmight have been, but which you are not. The city does not need you, for the city needs no man; but it is you who need the city, that youmay learn again the lesson that once made you the missionary of apeople. "

Faintly, through the silence that fell the deeper as the old man'swords died away, there came the sound of footsteps pacing in anotherroom. Once more the old man took up his speech. 

"They are Pietro's steps, " he said. "All night long I have heard youboth. He has been sobbing under the burden he believes he is unworthyto bear, while you have been raging that you were not permitted tobear it. Pietro was only your servant. He would be your servant againif he could. He loves you. I, too, love you. Perhaps I was selfish inloving you, but I wanted for God your soul and the souls you wereleading to Him. "

The old man arose. He put out his hand to grope his way back to thedoor. It touched Ramoni, sitting rigid. He did not stir. The handreached over him, caught the lintel of the door and guided the blindman to the hall. Then Ramoni stood up. Without a word he followed theother. When he had overtaken him he laid his hand gently on the blindman's arm and led him back to his cell. 

When he came back the door of the chapel was open. Ramoni, goingwithin, found Pietro there, prostrate at the foot of the altar. Ramoniknelt at the door, his eyes brimming with tears. He did not pray. Heonly gazed upon the far-off tabernacle. And while he knelt the GreatPlan unfolded itself to him. He looked back on Marqua as a man who hastraveled up the hills looks down on the valleys. And, looking back, hecould see that Pietro's had been the labor that had won Marqua. Therecame back to him all the memories of his servant's love of souls, hisceaseless teaching, his long journeys to distant villages, his zeal, his solicitude to save his superior for the more serious work ofpreaching. Pietro had been jealous of the slightest infringement onhis right to suffer. Pietro had been the apostle. Before God theconquest of Marqua had been Pietro's first, since he it was who hadtoiled and claimed no reward. 

A great peace suddenly mantled the troubled soul of Father Ramoni, andwith it a great love for the old General whose hand had struck him. Hethought of the painting hanging near where he knelt--"Moses Strikingthe Rock. " The features of Father Denfili merged into the features ofthe Law Giver, and Father Ramoni knew himself for the rock, barren andunprofitable. He fell on his face, and then his prayer came:

"Christ, humble and meek, soften me, and if there be aught of livingwater within, let me give one drop for thirsty souls yet ere I amcalled. "

He could utter no other prayer. 

Morning found both master and servant, now servant and master, beforethe altar where both were servants. 

III. 

It was fifteen years later when the brethren of the little Communityof San Ambrogio gathered in their chapel to sing the requiem overtheir founder and first General, Father Denfili, who died, old andblind, after twenty years of retirement into obscurity. But therewere more than his brethren there. For all those years he hadoccupied, day after day, the solitude of a little confessional in thechapel. He had had his penitents there, and, in a general way, thebrethren of San Ambrogio knew that there were among them manydistinguished ones; but they were not prepared for the revelation thathis obsequies gave them. Cardinals, Roman nobles, soldiers, prelates, priests and citizens crowded into the little chapel. They were thosewho had knelt week after week at the feet of the saint. 

But there was one penitent, greater than them all in dignity andsanctity, who could not come. The tears blinded him that morning whenhe said Mass in his own chapel at the Vatican for the soul of FatherDenfili. At the hour of the requiem he looked longingly toward ViaPaoli, where his old spiritual father was lying dead before the altarof the cloister chapel; and the tears came again into eyes that neededall their vision to gaze far out, from his watch-tower, on the Cityand the World. 

THE FLAMING CROSS

I. 

It was already midnight when Orville, Thornton and Callovan arose froma table of the club dining-room and came down in the elevator fortheir hats and coats. They had spent an evening together, delightfulto all three. This dinner and chat had become an annual affair, togive the old chums of St. Wilbur's a chance to live over college days, and keep a fine friendship bright and lasting. Not one of them was oldenough to feel much change from the spirit of youth. St. Wilbur's wasa fresh memory and a pleasant one; and no friends of business orsociety had grown half so precious for any one of these three men aswere the other two, whom the old college had introduced and had boundto him. 

The difference in the appearance of the friends was very marked. Thornton had kept his promise of growing up as he had started: short, fat and jovial. Baldness was beginning to show at thirty-five. Hisstubby mustache was as unmanageable as the masters of St. Wilbur's hadfound its owner to be. He had never affected anything, for he hadalways been openly whatever he allowed himself to drift into. Neitherof his friends liked many of his actions, nor the stories told ofhim; but they liked him personally and were inclined to be silentlysorry for him, but not to sit in judgment upon him. Both Orville andCallovan waited and hoped for "old Thornton"; but the wait had beenlong and the hope very much deferred. 

Callovan was frankly Irish. The curly black hair of the Milesian spokefor him as clearly as the blue-gray eye. He shaved clean and he lookedclean. An ancestry of hard workers left limbs that lifted him toalmost six feet of strong manhood. His skin was ruddy and fresh. Twoyears younger than Thornton, he yet looked younger by five. AndCallovan, like Thornton, was inwardly what the outward signs promised. 

Orville was tall and straight. The ghost of a black mustache was onhis lip. His hair was scanty, and was parted carefully. His dressshowed taste, but not fastidiousness. He was handsome, well groomedand particular, without obtrusiveness in any one of the points. He wasjust a little taller than Callovan; but he was grayer and a great dealmore thoughtful. He was a hard book to read, even for an intimate; butthe print was large, if the text was puzzling. He looked to be "in"the world, but who could say if he were "of" it?

All three of these friends were very rich. Thornton had made his moneywithin five years--a lucky mining strike, a quick sale, a move to thecity, speculation, politics were mixed up in a sort of rapid-firestory that the other friends never cared to hear the details of. Callovan inherited his wealth from his hard-fisted old father, who haddied but a year before. Orville was the richest of the three. He hadalways been rich. His father had died a month before he was born. Hismother paid for her only child with her life. Orville's guardian had, as soon as possible, placed him in St. Wilbur's Preparatory School andthen in the College; but he was a careful and wise man, this guardian, so, though plenty of money was allowed him, yet the collegeauthorities had charge of it. They doled it out to the growing boy andyouth in amounts that could neither spoil nor starve him. It was goodfor Orville that the guardian had been thus wise and the collegeauthorities thus prudent. He himself was generous and kind-hearted; bynature a spendthrift, but by training just a bit of a miser. He hadlearned a little about values during these school and college days. 

"Your car is not here yet, Mr. Orville, " said the doorman, when thethree moved to leave the club. 

"Very unlike your careful Michael, " remarked Callovan. 

Orville came at once to the defense of his exemplary chauffeur. "Igave him permission to go to St. Mary's to-night for confession, " hesaid. "Michael will be here in a moment. He goes to confession everySaturday night and is a weekly communicant. I can stand a littletardiness once a week for the sake of having a man like Michaelaround. "

"Good boy is Michael, " put in Thornton. "I wish I could get just asmall dose of his piety. Candidly, I am awfully lonesome sometimeswithout a little of it. 

A page came running up. "Telephone for you, Mr. Orville, " he said; andat almost the same moment the doorman called out: "Your car is herenow, sir. " Orville went to the telephone booth, but returned in amoment. 

"Lucky for us that we waited, " he said. "It was Marion who called. Sheis at the Congress, and she wants me to take her home. She camedown-town with her brother to meet the Dixes from Omaha, and thatworthless pup has gone off and left her. She knew that I was hereto-night, and 'phoned, hoping to catch me. We will pass around by thehotel and take her back with us. "

When the friends came out, Michael was standing with his hand on theknob of the big limousine's door. "I am sorry if I made you wait, sir, " he said. "I had a fainting spell in the church and could not getaway sooner. A doctor said it was a little heart attack; but I am allright now. "

Orville answered kindly. "I am sorry you were ill, Michael, but we areglad enough that you were late. That ill wind for you blew good to us, for we have Miss Fayall home with us. If you had been on time wewould have missed her. Go around to the Congress first. "

The car glided down Michigan avenue to the hotel, where Marion wasalready waiting in the ladies' lobby. She looked just what she was, the pampered and petted daughter of a rich man. Tonight her cheekswere flushed and her hand was very unsteady. Orville noticed both whenshe entered the car. He was startled, for Marion was his fiancée. Heknew that she was usually full of life and spirit; but this midnightgaiety worried him, and all the more that he loved the girl sincerely. 

Marion talked fast and furiously, railing continually at her brother;but she averted her face from Orville as much as possible and spoke toThornton. Orville said nothing after he had greeted her. 

The car sped on, passed the club again and down toward the bridge atthe foot of the avenue. Marion was scolding at Thornton as theyapproached the bridge at a good rate of speed. Orville was staringstraight ahead, so only he saw Michael's hand make a quick movementtoward the controller, and another movement, at the same time, as ifhis foot were trying to press on the brake; but both movements seemedto fall short and Michael's head dropped on his breast. Alarmed, Orville looked up. He had a swift glimpse of a flashing red light. Achain snapped like a pistol shot. He heard an oath from Thornton, anda scream from Marion. Then, in an instant, he felt the great weightfalling, and a flood of cold water poured through the open window ofthe car. He tried to open the door, but the weight of water against itmade this impossible. The car filled and the door moved. He was pushedout. He thought of saving Marion; but all was dark around him. Hetried to call, but the water choked him. He could only think a prayer, before he seemed to be falling asleep. Everything was fading awaybefore him, in a strange feeling of dreamy satisfaction; so onlyvaguely did he realize the tragedy that had fallen upon him. 

II. 

When light and vision came back to Orville, he was standing up andvaguely wondering why. Before him he saw Thornton and Marion, side byside. Near them was Callovan with Michael. All were changed; butOrville could not understand just in what the change consisted. InThornton and Marion the change was not good to look at, and Orvillesomehow felt that it was becoming more marked as he gazed. Michael wasalmost transformed, and was looking at Orville with a smile on hisface. Callovan was smiling also, so Orville naturally smiled back atthem. Thornton was frowning, and Marion looked horrible in herterror. Orville could understand nothing of it. He glanced about himand saw thousands of men and women, all smiling or frowning, like hiscompanions. Several seemed to be about to begin a journey and weremoving away from the groups, most of them alone. Some had burdensstrapped to their shoulders and bent under them as they walked. Thosewho were not departing were preparing for departure; but Orville couldsee no guides about. All the travelers appeared to understand wherethey were to go. 

Orville watched the groups divide again and again, wondering still, not knowing the reason for the division. Some took a road that ledupward to a mountain. It was a rough, hard and tiresome road. Orvillecould see men and women far above on that road, dragging themselvesalong painfully. Another road led down into a valley; but Orvillecould not see deep into that valley, because of a haze which hung overit. He looked long at the road before he noticed letters on a rockwhich rose up like a gateway to it, and he vaguely resolved that laterhe would go over and read them. But first he wanted to ask questions. 

"Michael, what does all this mean?" Orville said; all the timemarveling that it was to his servant he turned for information. 

Michael still smiled, and answered: "It means, sir, that we aredead. "

Orville was astonished that he felt neither shocked nor startled. "Dead? I do not quite understand, Michael. You are not joking?"

"No, sir. It happened quickly. We went over the bridge a minute ago. Our bodies are in the river now, but we are here. "

"Where?" asked Orville. 

Michael answered, "That I do not know, sir, except that we are in TheLand of the Dead. "

"But you seem to know a great deal, Michael, " said Orville. 

"Yes, " answered Michael; "I died a minute before you, sir, so I cameearlier. I was dead on my seat when we struck the chain and broke it. One learns much in a minute here. But tell me, sir, can you seeanything at the top of that mountain?"

Orville looked up and saw a bright light before him on the very summitand seemingly at the end of the road. As he gazed it took the form ofa Flaming Cross. 

"I see a Cross on fire, Michael, " he said. Michael answered simply:"Thank God. "

"I can see a Flaming Cross, too, " said Callovan, speaking for thefirst time. "I can see it, and what is more, I am going up to it; letus not delay an instant"; and Callovan began to gird hisstrange-looking garment about him for the climb. 

Then Orville knew that he himself was drawn toward that Flaming Cross. There was a something urging him on. His whole being was filled witha desire to get to that goal, and he, too, prepared quickly for theascent. 

"Wait a moment, sir, " said Michael. "Do the others see nothing on themountain?"

Thornton and Marion, still frowning, were looking down into the hazeof the valley. They were paying no attention to their friends. 

"Come, let us go, " said Thornton to the girl, as he pointed to theroad which led down into the valley. 

"No, no, " said Michael, "not there. Look up at the mountain. What doyou see?"

Both Marion and Thornton glanced upward. "I see nothing, " said Marion. 

"I see a Cross, but it is black and repellant-looking, " said Thornton. "Come, Marion, let us go at once. "

Orville, alarmed, called out: "Marion, you will surely come with me. "

The frown on her face changed to a look of awful sadness, but she puther hand into Thornton's while saying to Orville: "I can not go therewith you--not upward. I must enter the valley with him. " She movedaway, her hand still in Thornton's. Orville watched them go, onlywondering why he had no regrets. 

"Michael, " he said, "I loved her on earth. Why am I unmoved to see herleave me?"

[Illustration: "But when their feet touched the road, they turned andlooked their terror. "]

But Michael answered, "It is not strange in The Land of the Dead. There are stranger partings here; but all of them are likeyours--tearless for those who see the Cross. "

Thornton and Marion by this time had entered the valley road and wereon the other side of the rock gateway. But when their feet touched theroad they turned and looked their terror. Suddenly they recoiled andstruck viciously at each other. Then they parted. With the wide roadbetween them they went down into the valley and the haze together. 

Orville read the words on the rock gateway, for now they stood out sothat he could see plainly, and they were: "THE ROAD WITHOUT ENDING. ""Michael, " he said, "what does it mean?"

Michael answered, "She could not see the Cross here, who would not seeit on earth. It repelled him, who so often had repelled it in life. "

III. 

Neither Orville nor Callovan was at all moved by the tragedy each hadwitnessed. Orville's love for Marion was as if it had never existed. The friendship of both for Thornton did not in the slightest assertitself. They felt moved to sorrow, but the overpowering sense ofanother feeling--a feeling of victory for some Great Friend orCause--left the vague sorrow forgotten in an instant. Both men knewthat Thornton and Marion had passed out of their ken forever, and inthe future would be to them as if they had not been. All three madehaste to go toward the road which led up to the Flaming Cross. Thenupon Orville's shoulders he felt a heavy burden, but still heavier wasone which was bending Callovan down. Michael alone stood straight, without a weight upon him. 

"It will be hard to climb to the Cross with these burdens, Michael, "said Orville. 

"Yes, sir, it will, " said Michael, "but you must carry them. Youbrought them here. They are the burdens of your wealth. They willhamper you; but you saw the Cross, and in the end all will be well. "

"Then these burdens, Michael, are our riches?" asked both Orville andCallovan in the same breath. 

"They are your riches, " replied Michael. "I have no burden, for I hadno riches. Poor was I on earth, and unhampered am I now for the climbto the Cross. Look yonder. " He pointed to a man standing at the forkof the roads. His burden was weighing him to the earth. "He brought itall with him, sir, " continued Michael; "in life he gave nothing toGod. Now he must carry the burden up to the Cross, or leave it and gothe other road. He sees the Cross, too; but it will take ages for himto reach it. "

The man had thrown down the burden and now started to climb withoutit. But unseen hands lifted it back to his shoulders. Men and womengoing to the other road beckoned him to throw it away again and comewith them; but he had seen the Cross and, keeping his eyes fixed uponit, he crawled along with his burden upon him, inch by inch, up themountain. 

"In life he was good and faithful, but he did not understand thatriches were given him to use for a purpose and that he was not, himself, the purpose, " said Michael. "It was a miracle of grace thathe could see the Cross at all. "

"I knew that man in life, " said Callovan. "But why is not my burdenheavier than his? I was richer by far. "

"You lightened it by more charity than he, " said Michael, "but you didnot lighten it sufficiently: Had you given even one-tenth of all thatyou had, you would now be even as I am--free of all burden. "

"I wish I had known that, " said Callovan. 

"But, alas! you did know, " replied Michael. "We all knew these things. We are not learning them now. But look up, sir, and see the old manwith the heavy burden above you. You are going to pass him on yourway, yet he has been dead now for a year. "

Callovan looked up and gasped: "My father!"

"Yes; your father, " said Michael. "You had more charity than he, andwhen you did give you gave with better motives; yet he always saw theCross more plainly than you. He was filled with Faith. "

"Is it possible that I will be able to help him when I get to hisside?" asked Callovan. 

"I think, " replied Michael, "that you may; but you could have helpedhim better in life by prayers and the Great Sacrifice. You probablymay go along with him, when you reach him, for you both see the Cross, and perhaps you will be allowed to aid him up the mountain. "

They had by this time reached the first steps of the climb. Orvillecould read the words which marked the mountain road: "THE ROAD OF PAINAND HOPE. "

"But the Cross draws much of the pain out of it, " said Michael. "Wemust leave you here, sir, " he said to Callovan, turning to him. "Youhave far to go to reach your father; but your load is heavier than mymaster's, and then you must be lonely for a while. "

"But why must I be lonely?" asked Callovan. 

"For many reasons, sir, " replied Michael. "You will know them all asyou go along. Knowledge will come. I may tell you but a few thingsnow. In life you loved company, and it was often an occasion of sin toyou. You go alone for a while in the Land of Death, on this pilgrimageto the Cross, so that you may contemplate God, Whom you failed toenjoy by meditation, when you could have had Him alone. Then you havefew to pray for you now, for such companions as you had in life didnot and do not pray. They will cover your coffin with flowers; but theonly prayers will be those of the poor whom you befriended. Onepriest, after your funeral, will offer the Great Sacrifice for you. Hewas a friend whom you helped to educate. He will remember you at yourburial, and again, too, before the climb is over. "

"But, Michael, " said Callovan, "I gave a great deal to many goodworks. Will none of the gifts count for me?"

"Yes, sir, it is true that you did give much, but, " answered Michael, "the gifts were offerings more often to your own vanity than they wereto God. Motives alone govern the value of sacrifice in the Land ofDeath. Look, now, behind you. There is one who can best answer yourquestion. "

Callovan turned to see an old and venerable looking man at the fork ofthe roads. He was gazing anxiously at the mountain, as if he dimly sawthe Cross; but his burden was terrific in its weight. It rested on theground before him. He scarcely had the courage to take the mountainroad, knowing that the burden must go with him. 

"I have seen that man before, " said Orville. "They gave him areception at our club once. He was a great philanthropist--yet, lookat his burden. "

"Philanthropist he was, but I fear he will go on The Road withoutEnding, " said Michael. "He has many amongst those who can hate foreternity to hate him. "

Suddenly from the multitude of the dead came men and women, who lookedwith hatred upon the old man, and surrounded him on every side andmenaced him with threatening fists. "Beast!" shouted one. "I saw theCross in life, when I was young. The unbelief your work taught deniesme the sight of it in death. I curse you!"

"One year in the schools you founded, " wailed another, "lost me myGod. "

"Why do you stand at the foot of the hill of the Cross, youhypocrite?" cried another. "You have, in the name of a false science, encouraged by your gifts, destroyed the Faith of thousands. You shallnot go by The Road of Pain and Hope, even though you might have toclimb till Judgment. You shall go with us. "

Screaming in terror, the old man was dragged away. They could hear hisvoice in the distance, as the multitude drove him along The Roadwithout Ending. 

"Alas, I understand--now, " sadly said Callovan. He gazed at hisfriends with some of the pain of his coming solitude in his eyes. "Good-bye. Shall we meet again?"

Michael answered: "We shall meet again. Your pain may be very great;but there is an end. He who sets his foot on this Road has a promisewhich makes even pain a blessing. "

Callovan was left behind, for Orville and Michael climbed faster thanhe. 

"Michael, " said his master, "I am greatly favored. He was much betterin life than I, yet now he climbs alone. "

"You are not favored, sir, " answered Michael. "Many pray for you, because you loved the poor and sheltered and aided them. He has allthat is his, all that belongs to him. You have all that is yours. Donot forget that we are marching toward the Sun of Justice. "

And so they went on, over The Road of Pain and Hope. Orville's feetwere weary and bleeding. His hands and knees were bruised by falls. The adders stung him and the thorns pierced him. Cold rain chilled himand warm blasts oppressed him. He was one great pain; but within avoice that was his own kept saying: "I go to the Cross, I go to theCross, " and he forgot the suffering. He thought of earth for aninstant; but the thought brought him no longing to return. His breastwas swelling and seemed bursting with a wonderful great Love that madehim content with every tortured step. He even seemed to love the pain;and he could not stop, nor could he rest for the Flaming Cross thatwas drawing him on. He longed for it with a burning and intensedesire. His eyes were wet with the tears of devotion, and his wholebeing cried out: "More pain, O Lord! more pain, if only I may soonerreach the Cross!"

But Michael tried to ease his master's burden. 

At last Orville said to him: "How many ages have passed since I died?"

"You have been dead for ten minutes, sir, " answered Michael. "Theminutes are as ages in the Land of Death until you reach the Cross, and then the ages are as minutes. "

IV. 

They kept toiling on, but had known no darkness along The Road of Painand Hope. Orville's hand sought Michael's, and it opened to draw himcloser. "Michael, my brother, " he said, "may you tell me why there isno night?"

Michael smiled again when Orville called him "brother" and answered:"Because, my master, on The Road of Pain and Hope there is no despair;but it is always night along The Road without Ending. "

"Can you tell me, Michael, my brother, " said Orville, "Why my eyessuffer more keenly than all the rest?"

"Because, " said Michael, "your eyes, master, have offended most inlife, and so are now the weakest. "

"But my hands have offended, too, " said Orville, "and behold, they arealready painless and cured of the bruises. "

"Your hands are beautiful and white, master, " said Michael, "and werelittle punished, because they were often outstretched in charity andin good deeds. "

They had come to the brink of a Chasm which it seemed impossible tocross, but they hoped, for they knew no despair. Multitudes of peoplewere before them on the brink of the Chasm looking longingly at theother side. A few pilgrims were being lifted, by unseen hands, andcarried across the Chasm. Some Power there was to bear them whichneither Orville nor Michael understood. Many, however, had waitedlong, while some were taken quickly. Every hand was outstretchedtoward the Cross, and it could easily be seen that waiting was atorture worse than the bruises. 

"Alas, Michael, " said Orville, "it is harder to suffer the wait thanthe pain. "

"Yes, master, " Michael replied, "but this is The Chasm of NeglectedDuties. We must stay until those we have fulfilled may come to bear usacross. The one who goes first will await the other on the oppositeside. "

"Alas, Michael, " said Orville, "you must wait for me. I have few gooddeeds and few duties well done. "

Even as he spoke, Michael's face began to shine and his eyes weremelting. Orville looked and saw a little child with great wings, andbeautiful beyond all dreaming. Her gaze was fixed on Michael with thedeepest love and longing. Her voice was like the music of a harp, andshe spoke but one little word:

"Daddy!"

"Bride! My little Bride, " whispered Michael. 

Orville knew her, Michael's first-born child, who had died in infancy. He remembered her funeral. In pity for poor Michael, and feeling aduty toward his servant, he had followed the coffin to the church andto the grave, and had borne the expenses of her burial. His friendswondered at such consideration for one so far beneath him. 

"Daddy, " whispered the beautiful spirit, "I am to bring you across, and master, too. God sent me. And, daddy, there are millions ofchildren who could bring their parents over quickly, if they had onlylet them be born. It was you and mother, daddy, who gave me life, baptism and Heaven. Had I lived only a minute, it would have beenworth it. And, daddy, mother is coming soon, and I am waiting for youboth. "

Then the beautiful child touched and supported them, and lo! they werewafted across The Chasm of Neglected Duties: Michael, because hefollowed the command and made his marriage a Holy Sacrament to fulfilthe law of God; Orville, because he had shown mercy and recognition ofhis servant's claim upon him. 

Without understanding why, Orville found himself repeating over andover again the words: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtainmercy. " Michael heard him and turned to say: "Yes, master, and'Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God'! How well itwas for us that we had the heart of a child to plead our cause when wecame to The Chasm of Neglected Duties. "

V. 

"Michael, " said Orville, after a long and tiresome climb over a steeppart of the Road, "these rocks are sharp and treacherous, and I havetoiled hard and have made but very little progress. "

"I know, master, " said Michael, "but these rocks are the little faultsof our lives. Such rocks cover the mountain at this spot and areconstantly growing more numerous, yet one meets only one's own. ThePlain is not far away now. We are just reaching it, and these stonesare the only way to it. "

"What Plain is it, Michael?" asked Orville. 

"It is called, master, " said Michael, "The Plain of Sinful Things. Itis between us and the foot of the Cross. "

"Is it hard to pass over, Michael?" again asked Orville. 

"It is very hard to most men, sir, " said Michael. "No one knows howhard who has not been on it; and yet when one has been over, oneremembers nothing, for all is forgotten when The Flaming Cross isreached. "

They stood now at the top of the stones, and on the edge of the vastPlain, which lay white and scorching before them. Multitudes, as faras the eye could see, were upon it. They struggled painfully along;but none stopped to rest, for all faces were turned to The FlamingCross. 

Michael took but one step and a great change came over him. Orvillelooked at him again and again, but Michael did not seem to notice thechange in himself. His face shone with a marvelous beauty. Hisgarments became robes of brilliant white. About his head a lightplayed, the like of which Orville had never seen. It was more wondrousthan dreams of Paradise. His bleeding feet were healed and shone likehis visage. Orville thought that he heard sweet voices about Michael, but voices which spoke to Michael only. 

"Michael, my brother, " he said, "what is this; tell me?" and Orville'svoice sounded soft, as if he were praying. "Michael, who are you?"

But Michael only smiled kindly and humbly. "I am none other than yourservant, sir, " he answered. "He who serves, reigns; for his glory isin the service. I will be with you to the foot of the Cross. In lifeyou were a good master. You will need me until you reach your ownMaster there. " Michael pointed to where the Cross shone out over theblistering Plain. 

Then they went on, but the heat penetrated to Orville's very marrowand he seemed to faint under it, yet he always kept strugglingforward. The burning sands cooked his bleeding feet, but the anguishdid not halt him. Torrents of tears and sweat rolled down from him, but his hunger for the Cross made him forget. To his pain-racked bodyit felt as if the Cross gave out the great heat, but Orville was moregrateful than ever for it. 

"Does this heat really come from the Cross, Michael?" he asked. 

"Yes, from the Cross, master, " said Michael, "for this is The Plain ofSinful Things, and the Cross is the Sun of Justice. "

Then like a flash Orville began to understand, even as Michael hadunderstood from the beginning. Michael saw the change in him. His facebecame more radiant before he spoke. 

"Master, " he said, "my service is almost over. It was my prayerconstantly that I could return your goodness to me and mine; but onearth you were rich and I was poor. Here, master, in The Land of theDead, I am rich and you are poor. God let me make my pilgrimage withyou. The child you buried when I had nothing, bore you over The Chasmof Neglected Duties, where your hardest lot was to be found. You didnot even see another Chasm, which almost all meet, The Chasm ofForgotten Things, for the prayers gathered in a little chapel whichyou builded in a wilderness, a charity you forgot the day after youdid it, filled up the Chasm before you came to it. Here on The Plainof Sinful Things we would naturally separate, for I had never wilfullysinned against God. But you needed me, and He let me stay. Master, your burden has fallen from you. "

It was true. Orville was standing erect, with his eyes lookingstraight at The Flaming Cross, which did not blind him. His burden hadvanished, and his face had almost the radiance of Michael's. 

"The Cross is near you now, master. Look, It comes toward you. Yourpilgrimage is ending. "

Orville could see It coming, gently and slowly. The Plain was now allbehind him, and yet it seemed as if he had scarcely gone over morethan a few yards of it. The harping of a thousand harps was not sweetenough for the music that filled the air. Like the falling of manywaters in the distance came the promise of coolness to Orville'sparched throat and his burning lips. His breast heaved and he felt hisheart, full of Love, break in his bosom; but with it broke the bond ofSin, and he knew that he was dead, indeed, to earth, as out from thestainéd cover came his purified soul. 

The Cross was close to him now. With his new spiritual vision he sawthat in form it was One like himself, but One with eyes that were softand mild and full of tenderness, with arms outstretched andnail-prints like glittering gems upon them, with a wounded side andout from it a flood pouring which cooled the parched sands, so thatfrom them the flowers sprang up, full panoplied in color, form andbeauty, and sweetly smelling. Around The Flaming Cross flutteredcountless wings, and childish voices made melody, soft and harmoniousbeyond all compare. All else that Orville ever knew vanished beforethe glance of the Beloved; faces and forms dearest and nearest, oldhaunts and older affections, all were melted into this One Great Lovethat is Eternal. The outstretched arms were wrapped around them. Theblood from the wounded side washed all their pains from them. On theirforeheads fell the Kiss of Peace, and Orville and Michael had comehome. 

THE VICAR-GENERAL

The Vicar-General was dead. With his long, white hair smoothed back, he lay upon a silk pillow, his hands clasped over a chalice upon hisbreast. He was clad in priestly vestments; and he looked, as he lay inhis coffin before the great altar with the candles burning on it, asif he were just ready to arise and begin a new _"Introibo"_ in Heaven. The bells of the church wherein the Vicar-General lay asleep hadcalled his people all the morning in a sad and solemn tolling. Thepeople had come, as sad and solemn as the bells. They were gatheredabout the bier of their pastor. Priests from far and near had chantedthe Office of the Dead; the Requiem Mass was over, and the venerablechief of the diocese, the Bishop himself, stood in cope and mitre, togive the last Absolution. 

[Illustration: "The Bishop himself stood in cope and mitre to give thelast absolution. "]

The Bishop had loved the Vicar-General--had loved him as a brother. For was it not the Vicar-General who had bidden His Lordship welcome, when he came from his distant parish to take up the cares of adiocese. With all the timidity of a stranger, the Bishop had feared;but the Vicar-General guided his steps safely and well. Now theBishop, gazing at the white, venerable face, remembered--and wept. Inthe midst of the Absolution, his voice broke. Priests bit their lips, as their eyes filled with hot tears; but the Sisters who taught in theparochial school and their little charges, did not attempt to keepback their sobs. For others than the Bishop loved the Vicar-General. 

There was one standing by the coffin, whom neither the Bishop, priestsnor people saw. It was the Vicar-General, himself. He still wore hispriestly vestments. Was he not a priest forever? His arms were foldedand his face was troubled. He knew every one present; but none of themknew that he was so near. He scanned the lines of the Bishop's faceand seemed to wonder at his tears. He was quite unmoved by the sorrowaround him, did not seem to care at all. Yet in life the Vicar-Generalhad cared much about the feelings of others toward him. His eyeswandered over the great congregation and rested on the children, butwithout tenderness in them. This, too, was very unlike theVicar-General. Then the eyes came back and rested on the priestly formin the coffin, and the trouble of them increased. 

The Absolution was over and the coffin was closed when theVicar-General looked up again, and knew that Another Unseen besideshimself was present. The Other was looking over the coffin at theVicar-General; looking steadily, with eyes that searched down deep andwith lashes that were very, very still. He wore a long robe of sometexture the Vicar-General had never seen in life. It shimmered likesilk, shone like gold, and sparkled as if dusted with tiny diamonds. The hair of the Other was long, and fell, bright and beautiful, overhis shoulders. His face seemed to shine out of it, like a jewel in agold setting. His limbs seemed strong and manly in spite of hisbeardless face. The Vicar-General noticed what seemed like wingsbehind him; but they were not wings, only something which gave theimpression of them. The Vicar-General could not remove his eyes fromthe Other. Gradually he knew that he was gazing at an Angel, and anAngel who had intimate relation to himself. 

The body was borne out of the church. The Angel moved to follow, andthe Vicar-General knew that he also had to go. The day was perfect, for it was in the full glory of the summer; but the Vicar-Generalnoticed little of either the day or the gathering. The Angel did notspeak, but his eyes said "come": and so the Vicar-Generalfollowed--whither, he did not know. 

The Vicar-General was not sure that it was even a place to which theAngel led him; but he felt with increasing trouble that he was to bethe center of some momentous event. There were people arriving, mostof whom the Vicar-General knew--men and women of his flock, to whom hehad ministered and many of whom he had seen die. They all smiled atthe Vicar-General as they passed, and ranged themselves on one side. The Silent Angel stood very close to the Vicar-General. As the peoplecame near, the priest felt his vestments grow light upon him, as ifthey were lifting him in the air. They shone very brightly, too, andtook on a new beauty. The Vicar-General felt glad that he was wearingthem. 

The Silent Angel looked at him, but spoke not a word; yet theVicar-General understood at once, knew that he was to answer at astern trial, and that these were his witnesses--the souls of thepeople to whom he ministered, to whom he had broken the Bread of Life. How many there were! They gladdened the Vicar-General's heart. Therewere his converts, the children he had baptized, his penitents, thepure virgins whose vows he had consecrated to God, the youths whom hisexample had won to the altar. They were all there. The Vicar-Generalcounted them, and he could not think of a single one missing. 

On the other side, witnesses began to arrive and the Vicar-General'slook of trouble returned. He felt his priestly vestments becomingheavy. Especially did he feel the weight of the amice, which was likea heavy iron helmet crushed down over his shoulders. The cincture wasbinding him very tightly. He felt that he could scarcely move for it. The maniple rendered his left arm almost powerless. The stole waspulling at him, and the weight of the chasuble made him very faint. 

He knew some of the witnesses, but only a few. He had seen these fewbefore. They were his neglected spiritual children. He remembered eachand every case. One was a missed sick-call: his had been the fault. Another was a man driven from the church by a harsh word spoken inanger. The Vicar-General remembered the day when he referred to thisman in his sermon and saw him arise in his pew and leave. He did notreturn. Another was a priest--his own assistant. The Vicar-General hadno patience with his weaknesses. From disgust at them his feelings hadturned to rancor against the man--and the assistant was lost. TheVicar-General trembled; for these things he had passed by as eitherjustified by reason of the severity necessary to his office, or aswiped out by his virtues--and he had many virtues. 

The Vicar-General's eyes sought those of the Silent Angel, and he lostsome of his fear, while the weight of his vestments became a littlelighter. But the Silent Angel's gaze caused the Vicar-General again tolook at the witnesses. Those against him were increasing. The faces ofthe new-comers he did not know. The Vicar-General felt like protestingthat there must be some mistake, for the new-comers were red men, brown men, yellow men and black men, besides white men whose faceswere altogether strange. He was sure none of these had ever been inhis parish. The new-comers were dressed in the garbs of every nationunder the sun. They all alike looked very sternly at theVicar-General, so that he could not bear their glances. Still he couldnot understand how he had ever offended against them, nor could hesurmise why they should be witnesses to his hurt. 

The Silent Angel still stood beside the Vicar-General; but thetroubled soul of the priest could find no enlightenment in his eyes. All the while witnesses kept arriving and the multitude of them filledhim with a great terror. 

At last he saw a face amongst the strangers which he thought familiar, and he began to understand. It was the face of a priest he had known, who had been in the same diocese, somewhat under the Vicar-General'sauthority. On earth this priest had been one of the quiet kind, without ambition except to serve in a very humble way. He had alwaysbeen in a parish so poor and small, that the priest himself had in hismanner, his bearing, even his clothes, reflected its humility and itspoverty. The Vicar-General remembered that the priest had once come tohim as a matter of conscience to say that, while he was notcomplaining, nevertheless he really needed help and counsel. He saidthat his scattered flock was being lost for the want of things whichcould not be supplied out of its poverty. He told the Vicar-Generalwhat was needed. The Vicar-General remembered that he had agreed withhim; but had informed him very gently that it was the policy of thediocese to let each parish maintain and support itself. TheVicar-General had felt justified in refusing his aid, especiallysince, at that time, he was collecting for a new organ for his ownchurch, one with three banks of keys--the old one had but two. TheVicar-General now knew that his slight feeling of worry at the timewas not groundless; but while then he had felt vaguely that he waswrong in his position, now he was certain of error. His eyes soughtall through his own witnesses, but they found no likelihood of atestimony in his favor based on the purchase of that grand organ. Thenit all came to the Vicar-General, from the eyes of the Silent Angel, that he had received on earth all the reward that was due to him forit. 

The presence of the men of all colors and of strange garbs was still amystery to the Vicar-General; but at last he saw among them a bent oldpriest with a long beard and a crucifix in his girdle. At once theVicar-General recognized him and his heart sank. Too well heremembered the poor missionary who had begged for assistance: money, aletter, a recommendation--anything; and had faced the inflexibleofficial for half an hour during his pleading. The Vicar-General hadfelt at that time, as he felt when his poor diocesan brother had cometo him, that there was so much to be done at home, absolutely nothingcould be sent out. There was the Orphanage which the Bishop wasbuilding and they were just beginning to gather funds for a newCathedral. The Bishop had acquiesced in the Vicar-General's ruling. The diocese had flourished and had grown strong. The Vicar-General hadalways been its pride. He was humbled now under the gaze of the SilentAngel, whose eyes told him wherein he had been at fault. He knew thatthe fault was not in the building of the great and beautiful things, which of themselves were good because they were for God's glory; butrather was it in this: that he had shut out of his heart, for theirsakes, the cry of affliction and the call of pleading voices from thenear and far begging but for the crumbs which meant to them Faith hereand Life hereafter. 

Now, O God! there were the red men, the brown men, the yellow men andthe black men; not to speak of these white men whose faces were sostrange; and they were going to say something--something against him. He could guess--could well guess what it was they would say. TheVicar-General knew that he had been wrong, and that his wrong had comeinto Eternity. He doubted if it ever could be made right, for he knewnow the value of a soul even in a black body. He knew it, but was ittoo late? His vestments were as heavy as lead. 

Trembling in every limb, the Vicar-General looked for his Judge; buthe could not see Him. He only felt His Presence. The Silent Angel hada book in his hand. The Vicar-General could read its title. There wasa chalice on the cover, as if it spoke of priests, and under it heread:

THE LAW BY WHICH THEY SHALL BE JUDGED. 

The Silent Angel opened the book and the Vicar-General saw that it hadbut one page. Shining out from the page he read:

"THOU ART A PRIEST FOREVER. "

And under it:

"GO YE, THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS. "

Sorrow was over the soul of the priest. Only the hope in the eyes ofthe Silent Angel gave him hope, as he bowed his head before thejudgment. 

THE RESURRECTION OF ALTA

Father Broidy rushed down the stone steps and ran toward the Bishop'scarriage which had just stopped at the curb. He flung open the doorbefore the driver could alight, kissed the ring on the hand extendedhim, helped its owner out and with a beaming face led the Bishop tothe pretty and comfortable rectory. 

"Welcome! welcome to Alta, Bishop, " he said as they entered the house, "and sure the whole Deanery is here to back it up. "

The Bishop smiled as the clergy trooped down the stairs echoing thegreeting. The Bishop knew them all, and he was happy, for well was heaware that every man meant what he said. No one really ever admiredthe Bishop, but all loved him, and each had a private reason of hisown for it that he never confided to anyone save his nearest crony. They were all here now to witness the resurrection of Alta--thepoorest parish in a not too rich Diocese, hopeless three years ago, but now--well, there it is across the lot, that symphony in stone, every line of its chaste gothic a "Te Deum" that even an agnosticcould understand and appreciate; every bit of carving the paragraph ofa sermon that passers-by, perforce, must hear. To-day it is to beconsecrated, the cap-stone is to be set on Father Broidy's Arch ofTriumph and the real life of Alta parish to begin. 

"I thought you had but sixteen families here, " said the Bishop as hewatched the crowd stream into the church. 

"There were but eighteen, Bishop, " the young priest answered, with ahappy smile that had considerable self-satisfaction in it. "There areseventy-five now. "

"And how did it come about, my lad?" questioned the Bishop. 

"Mostly through my mission bringing back some of the 'ought-to-be's, 'but I suppose principally because my friend McDermott opened hisfactory to Catholics. You know, Bishop, that though he was born one ofus he had somehow acquired a bitter hatred of the Church, and he neveremployed Catholics until I brought him around. "

There was a shadow of a smile that had meaning to it on the Bishop'sface, as he patted the ardent young pastor on the arm, and said:

"Well, God bless him! God bless him! but I suppose we must begin tovest now. Is it not near ten o'clock?"

Father Broidy turned with a little shade of disappointment on hisface to the work of preparation, and soon had the procession startedtoward the church. 

Shall I describe the beauty of it all?--the lights and flowers, theswinging censers, with the glory of the chant and the wealth of mysticsymbolism which followed the passing of that solemn procession intothe sanctuary? That could best be imagined, like the feeling in theheart of the young pastor who adored every line of the building. Hehad watched the laying of each stone, and could almost count the chipsthat had jumped from every chisel. There had never been so beautiful aday to him, and never such a ceremony but one--three years ago in theSeminary chapel. He almost forgot it in the glory of the present. Dearme, how well Kaiser did preach! He always knew it, did Father Broidy, that young Kaiser had it in him. He did not envy him a bit of thecongratulations. They were a part of Father Broidy's triumph, too. Itwas small wonder that the Dean whispered to the Bishop on the way backto the rectory:

"You will have to put Broidy at the top of the list now. He has surelywon his spurs to-day. "

But again the shadow of the meaning smile was on the Bishop's face, and he said nothing; so the Dean looked wise and mysterious as heslapped the young pastor on the back and said:

"Proficiat, God bless you! You have done well, and I am proud of you, but wait and listen. " Then his voice dropped to a whisper. "I wastalking to the Bishop about you. "

The dinner? Well, Anne excelled herself. Is not that enough to say?But perhaps you have never tasted Anne's cooking? Then you surely haveheard of it, for all the Diocese knows about it, and everyone saidthat Broidy was in his usual good luck when Anne left the Dean's andwent to keep house for the priest at Alta. 

Story followed story, as dish followed dish, and a chance to rub upthe wit that had been growing rusty in the country missions for monthsnever passed by unnoticed. 

The Dean was toastmaster. 

"Right Reverend Bishop and Reverend Fathers, " he began, when he hadenforced silence with the handle of his fork, "it is my pleasure andpride to be here to-day. Three years ago a young priest was sent toone of the most miserably poor places in the Diocese. What he foundyou all know. The sorrowful history of the decline of Alta was never asecret record. Eighteen careless families left. Bigotry rampant. Factories closed to Catholics. Church dilapidated. Only the vestry fora dwelling place. That was three years ago, and look around youto-day. See the church, house and school, and built out of what? Thatis Father Broidy's work and Father Broidy's triumph, but we are gladof it. No man has made such a record in our Diocese before. What havewe others done by the side of his extraordinary effort? Yet we are notjealous. We know well the good qualities of soul and body in our youngfriend, and God bless him. We are pleased to be with him, thoughcompletely outclassed. We rejoice in the resurrection of Alta. Let menow call upon our beloved Bishop, whose presence among us is always ajoy. "

When the applause subsided the Bishop arose, and for an instant stoodagain with that meaning smile just lighting his face. For that instanthe did not utter a word. When he did speak there was a quiver in hisvoice that age had never planted and in spite of the jokes which hadpreceded and the laughter which he had led, it sounded like aforerunner of tears. He had never been called eloquent, thiskindly-faced and snow-crowned old man, but when he spoke it was alwayswith a gentle dignity, and a depth of sympathy and feeling thatcompelled attention. 

"It is a great satisfaction, my dear Fathers, " he began, "to find somany of you here to rejoice with our young friend and his devotedpeople, and to thus encourage the growth of a priestly life which hehas so well begun in Alta. No one glories in his success more than I. No one more warmly than I, his Bishop, tenders congratulations. Thisis truly a day the Lord has made--this day in Alta. It is a day ofjoy and gladness for priest and people. Will you pardon an old man ifhe stems the tide of mirth for an instant? He could not hope to stemit for long. On such an occasion as this it would burst the barriers, leaving what he would show you once more submerged beneath ripplingwaters and silver-tipped waves of laughter. It seems wrong even tothink of the depths where lie the bodies of the dead and the hulks ofthe wrecked. But the bottom always has its treasure as well as itstragedy. There are both a tragedy and a treasure in the story I willtell you to-day. "

"You remember Father Belmond, the first pastor of Alta? Yes! Then letme tell you a story that your generous priestly souls will treasure asit deserves. "

The table was strangely silent. Not one of the guests had ever beforeknown the depth of sympathy in the old Bishop till now. Every chord inthe nature of each man vibrated to the touch of his words. 

[Illustration: "I asked him how he lived on the pittance he hadreceived. "]

"It was ten years ago, " went on the Bishop--"ah, how years fly fast tothe old!--a friend of college days, a bishop in an Eastern State, wrote me a long letter concerning a young convert he had justordained. He was a lad of great talents, brilliant and handsome, theson of wealthy parents, who, however, now cast him off, giving him tounderstand that he would receive nothing from them. The young man wasfilled with zeal, and he begged the bishop to give him to somemissionary diocese wherein he could work in obscurity for the greaterglory of God. He was so useful and so brilliant a man that the bishopdesired to attach him to his own household and was loath to lose him, but the priest begged hard and was persistent; so the bishop asked meto take him for a few years and give him actual contact with thehardships of life in a pioneer state. Soon, he thought, the young manwould be willing to return to his larger field. The bishop, in otherwords, wanted to test him. I sadly needed priests, so when he camewith the oil still wet on his hands, I gave him a place--the worst Ihad--I gave him Alta. Some of you older men know what it was then. Thestory of Alta is full of sorrow. I told it to him, but he thanked meand went to his charge. I expected to see him within a week, but I didnot see him for a year. Then I sent for him, and with his annualreport in my hand I asked him how he lived on the pittance which hehad received. He said that it took very little when one was carefuland that he lived well enough--but his coat was threadbare and hisshoes were sadly patched. There was a brightness in his eyes too, anda flush on his cheek that I did not quite like. I asked him of hiswork and he told me that he was hopeful--told me of the little repairshe had made, of a soul won back, but in the conversation I actuallystole the sad tale of his poverty from him. Yet he made no complaintand went back cheerfully to Alta. 

"The next month he came again, but this time he told me of the direneed of aid, not for himself, but for his church. The people, he said, were poor pioneers, and in the comfortless and ugly old church theywere losing their grip on religion. The young people were falling awayvery fast. All around were well ordered and beautiful sectarianchurches. He could see the effect, not visible to less interested eyesbut very plain to his. He feared that another generation would be lostand he asked me if there was any possibility of securing temporary aidsuch as the sects had for their building work. I had to tell him thatnothing could be done. I told him of the poverty of my own Diocese, and that, while his was a poor place, there were others approachingit. In my heart I knew there was something sadly lacking in ournational work for the Church, but I could do nothing myself. He wroteto his own State for help, but the letters were unanswered. Except forthe few stipends I could give him and which he devoted to his work, itwas impossible to do anything. He was brave and never faltered thoughthe eyes in him shone brighter and in places his coat was wornthrough. A few days later I received a letter from his bishop askinghow he did and saying that he would appoint him to an excellent parishif he would return home willingly. I sent the letter to Alta with alittle note of my own, congratulating him on his changed condition. Hereturned the letter to me with a few lines saying: 'I can not go. If Idesert my people here it would be a sin. There are plenty at home forthe rich places but you have no one to send here. Please ask thebishop to let me stay. I think it is God's will. ' The day I receivedthat letter I heard one of my priests at the Cathedral say: 'How seedythat young Belmond looks! for an Eastern man he is positively sloppyin his dress. He ought to brace up and think of the dignity of hiscalling. Surely such a man is not calculated to impress himself uponour separated brethren. ' And another chimed in: 'I wonder why he lefthis own diocese?'"

"I heard no more for two years except for the annual report, and nowand then a request for a dispensation. I did hear that he was teachingthe few children of the parish himself, and every little while I sawan article in some of the papers, unsigned but suspiciously like hisstyle, and I suspected that he was earning a little money with hispen. 

"One winter night, returning alone from a visitation of Vinta, thefast train was stalled by a blizzard at the Alta station. I went outon the platform to secure a breath of fresh air, but I had scarcelyclosed the door when a boy rushed up to me and asked if I were aCatholic priest. When I nodded he said: 'We have been trying to get apriest all day, but the wires are down in the storm. Father Belmondis sick and the doctor says he will die. He told me to look throughevery train that came in. He was sure I would find some one. ' Reachingat once for my grip and coat I rushed to the home of the Pastor. Thehome was the lean-to vestry of the old log church. In one cornerFather Belmond lived; another was given over to the vestments andlinens. Everything was spotlessly clean. On a poor bed the priest wastossing, moaning and delirious. Only the boy had attended him in hissickness until the noon of that day when two good old women heard ofhis condition and came. One of them was at his bedside when I entered. When she saw my collar she lifted her hands in that peculiarlyHibernian gesture that means so much, and said:

"'Sure, God sent you here this night. He has been waiting since noonto die. '

"The sick priest opened his eyes that now had the brightness of deathin them and appeared to look through me. He seemed to be very faraway. But slowly the eyes told me that he was coming back--back fromthe shadows; then at last he spoke:

"'You, Bishop? Thank God!'"

"He made his simple confession. I anointed him and brought himViaticum from the tabernacle in the church. Then the eyes went wildagain, and I saw when they opened and looked at me that he had alreadyturned around, and was again walking through the shadows of the GreatValley that ends the Long Road. 

[Illustration: "Then I learned--old priest and bishop as I was--Ilearned my lesson. "]

"Through the night we three, the old woman, the boy and myself, watched him and listened to his wanderings. Then I learned--old priestand bishop as I was--I learned my lesson. The lips that never spoke acomplaint were moved, but not by his will, to go over the story of twoterrible years. It was a sad story. It began with his great zeal. Hewanted to do so much, but the black discouragement of everythingslowly killed his hopes. He saw the Faith going from his people. Hesaw that they were ceasing to care. The town was then, as it isto-day, McDermott's town, but McDermott had fallen away when hisriches came, and some terrible event, a quarrel with a former priestwho had attended Alta from a distant point, had left McDermott bitter. He practically drove the pastor from his door. He closed his factoryto the priest's people and one by one they left. Only eighteenfamilies stayed. The dying priest counted them over in his dreams, andsobbed as he told of the others who had gone. Then the bigotry thatMcDermott's faith had kept concealed broke out under the encouragementof McDermott's infidelity. The boys of the town flung insults at thepriest as he passed. The people gave little, and that grudgingly. Icould almost feel his pain as he told in his delirium how, day afterday, he had dragged his frail body to church and on the round ofduty. But every now and then, as if the words came naturally to bearhim up, he would say:

"'It's for God's sake. I am nothing. It will all come in His own goodtime. '

"Then I knew the spirit that kept him to his work. He went over hisvisit to me. How he had hoped, and then how his hopes were dashed tothe ground. Oh, dear Lord, had I known what it all meant to thatsensitive, saintly nature, I would have sold my ring and cross to givehim what he needed. But my words seemed to have broken him and he camehome to die. The night of his return he spent before the altar in hislog church, and, Saints of Heaven, how he prayed! When I heard hispoor, dry lips whisper over the prayer once more I bowed my head onthe coverlet and cried as only a child can cry--and I was only a childat that minute in spite of my white hair and wrinkles. He had offereda supreme sacrifice--his life. I gleaned from his prayers that hisparents had done him the one favor of keeping up his insurance andthat he had made it over to his church. So he wanted to die at hispost and piteously begged God to take him. For his death he knew wouldgive Alta a church. He seemed penetrated with the idea that alive hewas useless, but that his death meant the resurrection of Alta. When Iheard that same expression used so often to-day I lived over again thewhole story of that night in the little vestry. All this time he hadbeen picking the coverlet, and his hands seemed, during the pauses, to be holding the paten as if he were gathering up the minuteparticles from the corporal. At last his hand found mine. He clung toit, and just an instant his eyes looked at me with reason in them. Hesmiled, and murmured, 'It is all right, now, Bishop. ' I heard a sobback of me where the boy stood, and the old woman was praying. He wastrying to speak again, and I caught the words, 'God's sake--I amnothing--His good time. ' Then he was still, just as the morning sunbroke through the windows. 

"That minute, Reverend Fathers, began the resurrection of Alta. Theold woman told me how it happened. He was twenty-five miles awayattending one of his missions when the blizzard was at its height. McDermott fell sick and a telegram was sent for the priest--the lastmessage before the wires came down. Father Belmond started to drivethrough the storm back to Alta. He succeeded in reaching McDermott'sbedside and gave him the last Sacraments. He did not break downhimself until he returned to the vestry, but for twenty-four hours hetossed in fever before they found him. 

"McDermott grew better. He sent for me when he heard I was in town. The first question he asked was: 'Is he dead?' I told McDermott thestory just as I am telling you. 'God forgive me, ' said the sick man, 'that priest died for me. When he came here I ordered him out of myoffice, yet when they told him I was sick he drove through the stormfor my sake. He believed in the worth of a soul, and he himself wasthe noblest soul that Alta ever had. '

"I said nothing. Somebody better than a mere bishop was talking toMcDermott, and I, His minister, was silent in His presence. 'Bishop, 'said McDermott, after long thought, 'I never really believed untilnow; I'm sorry that it took a man's life to bring back the Faith of myfathers. Send us a priest to Alta--one who can do things: one afterthe stamp of the saint in the vestry. I'll be his friend and togetherwe will carry on the work he began. I'll see him through if God sparesme. '

"Dear Fathers, it is needless to say what I did. 

"Father Broidy, on this happy day I have not re-echoed the praisesthat have been showered upon you as much as perhaps I might have done, because I reserved for you a praise that is higher than all of them. Ibelieved when I sent you here that you were of his stamp. You havedone your duty and you have done it well. I am not ungrateful and Ishall not forget. But your best praise from me is, that I firmlybelieve that you, under like circumstances, would also have willinglygiven your life for the resurrection of Alta. "

THE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL

Years ago there lived a man whose soul had died; and died as only asoul may die, by the man's own deed. His body lived still fordebauchery, his mind lived still to ponder on evil, but his soul wasstifled in a flood of sin. So the man lived his life with a dead soul. 

When the soul died the man's dreams changed. The fairy children of hisyouth came no more to play with him and his visions were of lands bareand desolate, with great rocks instead of green trees; and sandy, dryand arid plains instead of bright grass and flowers. But out of therocks shone fiery veins of virgin gold and the pitiless sun that driedthe plain reflected countless smaller suns of untouched diamonds. Hither in dreams came often the man with the dead soul. 

The years passed and the man realized with his mortal eyes the full ofhis dreams and touched mortal foot to the desert that now was all hisown. Greedily he picked and dug till his weary body cried "enough. "Then only he left, when his strength could dig no more. So he began tolive more evilly because of his new power of wealth; and his soul wasfarther than ever from resurrection. 

Now it happened that the man with the dead soul soon found that he hadbecome a leper because of his sins, and so with all his gains wasdriven from among men. He went back to the desert and watched the goldveins in the rocks and the shining of the diamonds, all the timehoping for more strength to dig. But while waiting, his musings turnedto hateful thoughts of all his kindred, and abhorrence of all good. Sohe said: "I have been driven from among men because they love virtue, henceforth I will hate it; because they loved God, henceforth I willlove only evil; because they use their belongings to work mercy, henceforth I will use mine to inflict revenge. I may not go to men, soI will go to those who do men harm. "

So the man with the dead soul went to live among the beasts. He dweltfor a long time in the forests and the most savage of the brutes werehis friends. One day he saw a hermit at the door of his cave. "Howlivest thou here?" he asked. 

"From the offerings of the raven who brings me bread and the wild beeswho give it sweetness and the great beasts who clothe me, " answeredthe hermit. Then the man with the dead soul left the beasts becausethey did good and were merciful. 

Out of the forest the North Wind met the man and tossed him upon itswings and buffeted him and chilled him to the marrow. In vain heasked for mercy, the North Wind would give none. Half frozen and sorewith blows the man gasped--

"'Tis well! I will dwell with thee for thou givest nothing but evil. "So he went to dwell in the cave of the North Wind and the chill of thepitiless cold was good to him on account of his dead soul. 

One day he saw the clouds coming, headed for his own desert, and theNorth Wind went to meet them and a mighty battle took place in theair; but the North Wind was the victor. White on the ground where thechill had flung them lay the clouds in snow crystals; and the manlaughed his joy at the sight of the ruin--for he knew that therain-clouds would have greened his desert and made it beautiful. Buthe heard the men who cultivated the land on which the snow had fallenbless the North Wind that it had given their crops protection andpromised plenty to the fields of wheat. Then the man with the deadsoul cursed the North Wind and went to dwell in the ocean. 

The waters bade him stay and daily he saw their work of evil. Down inthe depths dead men's bones whitened beside the wealth of treasure theocean had claimed. He walked along the bottom for years exulting indestruction before he came to the surface to watch the storms andlaugh at the big waves eating the great ships. But there was only agentle breeze blowing that day, and he saw great vessels laden withtreasure and wealth passing from nation to nation. He saw the dolphinsplay over the bosom of the waters and the sea-gulls happy to ride thewaves. Then afar off he saw the bright columns where all day long thesun kept working, drawing moisture to the sky from the waters tospread it, even over the man's barren desert, to make it bloom. 

Cursing again, the man with the dead soul left the waters and buriedhimself beneath the earth, to hide in dark caves where neither lightnor sound could go. But a glowworm that lived in the cave made it alltoo bright. By its lantern he saw the hidden mysterious forcesworking. Through tiny paths warmth and nourishment ran to be near thesurface that baby seeds might germinate, live and flourish for man'sbenefit. He saw great forests draw their strength from the very Earthinto which he had burrowed, to fall again in death into its kindlyarms and so to change into carbon and remain stored away for man'sfuture comfort. Then the man with the dead soul could live in earth nolonger, and neither could he go to the beasts, to the air, or to thewaters. 

"I will return to my desert, " he said, "for there is more of evil inthe gold and diamonds than anywhere else. "

So he went back where the gold still shone from the veins in thecliffs and the diamonds twinkled in the pitiless sun rays. But athrone had been raised on a hillock and a king sat thereon with acrown on his head and a trident in his hand. 

"Who art thou who invadest my desert?" asked the man. 

"Thy master, " answered the king. 

"And who is my master?" asked the man. 

"The spirit of evil. "

"Then would I dwell with thee, " said the man. 

"Thou hast served me well and thou art welcome, " said the king. "Behold!"

He stretched forth the trident and demons peopled the desert. 

"These are thy companions. Thou shalt dwell with them, and withouttorture, unless thy evil deeds be turned to good to torture me. Knowthat thou hast passed from mortal life, and thy deeds of evil havebrought thee my favor. If thou hast been successful in reaping theevil thou has sown, thou shalt be my friend. But know that for everygood thing that comes from it, thou shalt be tortured with whips ofscorpions. "

So the man with the dead soul walked through rows of demons with whipsin their hands; but no arm was raised to strike, for he had sown hisevil well and the king did not frown on him. 

Then one day a single whip of scorpions fell upon his shoulders. Pain-racked he looked at the king and saw that his face was twistedwith agony: then he knew that somewhere an evil deed of his own hadbeen turned to good. And even while he looked the whips began to fallmercilessly from all sides and the king, frantic with agony, criedout:

"Tear aside the veil. Let him see. "

In an instant the whips ceased to fall and the man with the dead soulsaw all the Earth before him--and understood. A generation had passedsince he had gone, but his keen eye sought and found his wealth. Thefinger of God had touched it and behold good had sprung from iteverywhere. It was building temples to the mighty God where the poorcould worship; and the hated Cross met his eye wherever he looked, dazzling his vision and blinding him with its light. Wherever theFinger of God glided the good came forth; the hungry were nourished, the naked clothed, the frozen warmed and the truth preached. Beforehim was the good growing from his impotent evil every moment andmultiplying as it grew; and behind him he heard the howls of thetortured demons and the impatient hisses of the whips that hungeredfor his back. 

Shuddering he closed his eyes, but a voice ringing on the air made himopen them again. The voice was strangely like his own, yet purifiedand sweet with sincerity and goodness. It was singing the "Miserere, "and the words beat him backward to the demons as they arose. 

He caught a glimpse of the singer, a young man clad in a brown habitof penance with the cord of purity girt about him. His eyes lookedonce into the eyes of the man with the dead soul. They were the eyesof the one to whom he had left his legacy of hate and wealth andevil--his own and his only son. 

Shuddering, the man with the dead soul awoke from his dream, andbehold, he was lying in the desert where the gold tempted him from outof the great rocks and the diamonds shone in the sunlight. He lookedat them not at all, but straightway he went to where good men sang the"Miserere" and were clad in brown robes. And as he went it came topass that his dead soul leaped in the joy of a new resurrection. 

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR

I was born in a beautiful city on the banks of a charming river, thecapital of a great nation. Unlike humans, I can remember no childhood, though it is said that I had a formative period in the care of artistswhose brains conceived the beauty of my face and whose hands realizedthe glory of their dreams. But to them I was only a pretty thing ofpaper with line and color upon it. They gave me nothing else, and Ireally began to live only when some one representing the Great Nationstamped a seal upon me. Though a bloodless thing, yet I felt a throbof being. I lived, and the joy of it went rioting through me. 

I remember that at first I was confined in a prison, bound with othersby an elastic band which I longed to break that I might escape to thewelcoming hands of men who looked longingly at me through the bars. But soon one secured me and I went out into a great, wide and verybeautiful world. 

Of the first months of my life I can remember but very little, onlythat I was feverishly happy in seeing, and particularly in doing. Iwas petted and admired and sought after. I went everywhere and dideverything. So great was my popularity that some even bartered theirpeace of mind to obtain me, and others, forced to see me go, shedtears at the parting. Some, unable to have me go to them otherwise, actually stole me. But all the time I cared nothing, for I was livingand doing--making men smile and laugh when I was with them and weepwhen I went away. It was all the same to me whether they laughed orcried. I only loved the power that was in me to make them do it and Ibelieved that the power was without limit. 

I was not yet a year old when I began to lose my beauty. I noticed itfirst when I fell into the hands of a man with long hair and pointedbeard, who frowned at me and said: "You poor, faded, dirty thing, tothink that I made you!" But I did not care. He had not made me. It wasthe Great Nation. Anyhow I could still do things and make even himlong for me. So I was happy. 

I was one year and a half old when I formed my first great partnershipwith others of my kind, and it came about like this: I had been in thepossession of a poor woman who had guarded me for a week in a mostunpleasant smelling old purse, when I heard a sharp voice ask forme--nay, demand me, and couple the demand with a threat that myguardian should lose her home were the demand refused. I was givenover, I hoped, to better quarters, but in this I was sadlydisappointed, for my new owner confined me in a strong butill-favored box where thousands like myself were growing mouldy andwrinkled, away from the light of day. Sometimes we were released atnight to be carefully counted by candle-light, but that was all. Thuswe who were imprisoned together formed a partnership, but even then wewere not strong enough to free ourselves. One night the box was openedwith a snap and I saw the thin, pale face of my master looking down atus. He selected me and ninety-nine of my companions and placed usoutside the box. 

"There's the money, " he said, "as I told you. It's all yours. Are yousatisfied now?" I looked across the table at a young girl with awhite, set face that was very, very beautiful. She did not answer. 

"If you want it why don't you take it?" he snarled at her. "I can tellyou again that there is nothing else for you. "

The girl had something in her hand that I saw. I see more than mostmen. The thing she had made a sharp noise and spit a flame at him. Hefell across the table and something red and warm went all over me. Ibegan to be unhappy, for I thought I saw that there was something inthe world that could not be bought. For him I cared nothing. 

It was strange that after my transfers I was at last used to pay thejudge who tried the girl. I was in the judge's pocket when hesentenced her to death. He said: "May the Lord have mercy on yoursoul. " But I knew, for I told you I could see more than most men, that he didn't believe in the Lord or in souls. He left the court tospend me at a ----, but I think that I will not mention that shamefulchange. There was nothing strange about my falling into the hangman aspart of his pay. I had been in worse hands in the interim. 

I saw her die. Not a word did she say about the man she killed, thoughit might have saved her to tell of the mock marriage and the otherthings I knew she could reveal. She thought it better to die, Isuppose, than be shamed. So she died--unbought. It made me still moreunhappy to think of it at all. The dark stain never left me, but Icared nothing for that. What troubled was that I knew she wanted me, was starving for what I could buy, but spurned me and died rather thantake me. There was something that had more power than I possessed. 

I made up my mind to forget, so my next effort was the greatest I hadyet made--my partnership with millions of others. I traveled longdistances over and over again. I dug gold from the earth and soproduced others like myself. I built railroads, skyscrapers, steamships and great public works. I disguised myself, in order toenhance my power, under new forms of paper and metal, coin, drafts, checks, orders and notes. Indeed I scarcely knew myself when Ireturned to the bill with the red stain upon it. My partners werenearly all with us one day when the master came in with a man andpointed us out to him. The man shook his head. It was a great, massivehead, good to look at. My master talked a long time with him but henever changed. Then he placed a great roll of us in his hand. He threwus down, kicked us, and went out without a look back. I was moreunhappy than ever. He had spurned me, though I knew by his look thathe wanted me. I felt cursed. I had not much power at all. There wasanother thing I could not buy. 

But a curse came in good earnest two days later. The terror of thathas never left me. I saw a man die who loved me better than his honoror his God. He refused, dying, to give me back to the man from whom hehad stolen me. The priest who stood by his bed implored him. Herefused and the priest turned from him without saying the words ofabsolution. When the chill came on him he hissed and spit at us, andcroaked his curses, but the death rattle kept choking them back intohim, only to have him vomit them into our faces again and again tillhe died. The priest came back and looked at him. 

"Poor fool!" he said to him, but to me and my companions he said: "YOUsent him to Hell. "

Ah! What a power that was, but while I rejoiced in it I was not gladenough. He could have conquered had he only willed it. I knew he wasmy master long before I mastered him. 

His dissipated and drunken children fought for us beside his very bed. I was wrenched from one hand to the other, falling upon the dirtyfloor to be trampled on again and again. When the fight ended I wastorn and filthy, so that, patched and ugly, my next master sent meback to the great capital to be changed; to have the artists workagain on me and restore my beauty. They did it well, but no artistcould give me new life. 

Again I went forth and fell into the hands of a good man. I knew hewas good when I heard him speak to me and to those who were with me. "God has blessed me, " he said, "with riches and knowledge andstrength, but I am only His steward. This money like all the restshall be spent in His service. " Then we were sent out, thousands ofus, returning again and again, splitting into great and small parties, but all coming and going hither and thither on errands of mercy. 

Now I felt my love of doing return. Never did I now see a tear that Idid not dry. Never did I hear a sigh that I did not change to a laugh;never a wound that I did not heal; never a pain that I did not soothe;nor a care I did not lighten. Where the sick were found, I visitedthem; where the poor were, I bought them bread. Out on the plains andin the desert I lifted the Cross of Hope and the Chalice of Salvation. To the dying I sped the Minister of Pardon. Into the darkness and theshadow of death I sent the Light of love and hope and truth, till, rich in the deeds of mercy I did in my master's name, I felt the callto another deathbed--his own. I saw my companions flying from thebounds of the great earth to answer the call. They knew he needed themnow with the rich interest of good deeds they had won for him. Fastthey came and the multitude of them filled him with wonder. The enemywho hated him pointed to them in derision. "Gold buys hell, notheaven, " he laughed, but we stood around the bed and the enemy couldnot pass us. Then we, and deeds we did for him at his command, beganto pray and the prayer was like sweetest music echoing against thevery vault of heaven; and other sounds, like the gentle tones ofharps, were wafted over us, swelling louder and louder till all seemedchanged to a thousand organs, with every stop attuned to the praying. They were the voices of the children from parts and regions where wehad lifted the Cross. One by one they joined the mighty music till onthe wings of the melody the master was borne aloft, higher and higheras new voices coming added of their strength. I watched till he wasfar above and still rising to heights beyond the ken of dreams. 

An Angel touched me. 

"Be thou clean, " he said, "and go, I charge thee, to thy work. Thymaster is not dead, but only begins his joy. While time is, thou shaltwork for him and thy deeds of good shall be his own. Wherever thoushalt go let the Cross arise that, under its shadow, the children maygather and the song find new strength and new volume to lift himnearer and nearer the Throne. "

So I am happy that I have learned my real power; that I can do whatalone is worth doing--for His sake. 

LE BRAILLARD DE LA MAGDELEINE[1]

This is the story that the old sailor from Tadousac told me when thewaves were leaping, snapping, and frothing at us from the St. Lawrence, and over the moan of the wind and the anger of the watersrose the wail of the Braillard de la Magdeleine. 

"You hear him? Every storm he calls so loud. I think of my own babywhen I hear him, always the same, always so sorrowful. Poor baby!

"Yes, it is a baby. Across there you might see, but the storm darkenseverything, yonder toward Gaspe, where the little motherlived--_pauvre mêre_. She was only a child, innocent and good andhappy, when he came--the great lord, the _Grand Seigneur_, fromFrance--came with the Commandant to Quebec and then to Tadousac. 

"She loved him, loved him and forgot--forgot her father andmother--forgot the good name they gave her--forgot the innocence thatmade her beautiful--forgot the pure Mother and the good God, for himand his love. She went to Quebec with him, but the Curé had notblessed them in the church. 

"Then the baby came. That is the baby who cries out there in thestorm. The _Grand Seigneur_ killed the little baby, killed it to saveher from disgrace, killed it without baptism, and it cries and wailsout there, _pauvre enfant_. 

"The mother? She is here, too, in the storm. She has been here formore than two hundred years listening to her baby cry. Poor mother. The baby calls her and she wanders through the storm to find him. Butshe never sees, only hears him cry for her--and God. Till the greatDay of Judgment will the baby cry, and she--_pauvre mêre_--will paythe price of her sin, pay it out of her empty mother heart and hungrymother arms, that will not be filled. You hear the soft wind from theshore battle with the great wind from the Gulf? Perhaps it is she, _pauvre mêre_--perhaps. 

"The _Grand Seigneur_? He never comes, for he died unrepentant andunpardoned. The lost do not return to Earth and Hope. He never comes. Only the mother comes--the mother who weeps and seeks, and hears thebaby cry. "

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Near the mouth of the St. Lawrence can be heard a soundlike wailing whenever there is a great storm. The people call it LeBraillard de la Magdeleine and countless tales are told concerningit. 

THE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS

From Tadousac to the far-off Lake of Saint John the rock-boundSaguenay rolls through a mystic country, sublime in natural beauty, and alive with traditions, legends and folk-lore tales. Ghosts of thepast people its shores, phantom canoes float down the river ofmystery; and disembodied spirits troop back to earth at the dreamer'scall; traders, trappers, soldiers, women strong in love and valor, heroes in the long ago, and saintly missionaries offering up mortallife that savages may know the Christian's God. 

Beauty, mysticism and music--music in all things, from the silver flowof the river to the soft notes of the native's tongue, and dominatingall, simple faith and deep-rooted, God-implanted patriotism. 

Such was French Canada, the adopted country of Deschamps the trapper, a native of old France, who made his home in Tadousac while Quebec wasyet a growing city; and, caring nothing for toil or hardship, gradually grew to be a _grand monsieur_ in the estimation of thepeople about him. He loved his country well and, when war came, sentforth three sturdy sons to help repel the British foe. Many were thetears the patriot shed, because age forbade the privilege ofshouldering musket and marching himself. 

Weary months dragged by before tidings came. Quebec had fallen. Thegallant Montcalm had passed through the Gate of Saint John to a hero'srest, and two of the trapper's sons lay dead on the Plains of Abraham. They had died bravely, as Deschamps hoped they would, with their facesto the foe, and with a whispered message of love to the old father atTadousac. 

And Pascal, the best beloved?

Pascal was--a traitor!

The blood of Deschamps in the veins of a traitor! Wife, daughter andgallant sons had been riven from him by death and the Christian's hopelightened the; mourner's desolation. But disgrace! Neither earth norheaven held consolation for such wrong as his. Deschamps brooded onhis woe; alone he endured his agony, giving utterance to his despairin the words: "France! Pascal! Traitor!"

Years passed and the trapper lived on, a senile wreck, ever broodingon defeat, then breaking into fierce invective. Misery had isolatedhim from his kind; the _grand monsieur_ was the recluse of Tadousac. One day he disappeared from his lonely cabin and no one knew whitherhe had gone. 

Treason had purchased prosperity for the recreant son. Wealth andhonors were his and an English wife, a haughty woman of half-noblefamily, who completed the work of alienation. Traitorous deed, kindred and race were all forgotten, and when the joy-bells rang forthe birth of an heir there was revel in the magnificent mansion ofPascal Deschamps. 

"Summon our friends, " said the happy father. "A son to the house ofDeschamps! Let his baptism be celebrated as becomes the heir ofwealth, power and position. "

So heralds went forth from town to town, making known the tidings, butbore no message to the lonely grandsire in Tadousac. 

"The curse is lifted!" said the pious peasants, mindful of Pascal'streason. "A child at last! The good God has forgiven him. "

From Quebec to Malbaie came so-called friends, English who despisedhis treachery, French who hated his name, but courtiers all; and withthem came an unbidden guest, an aged trapper, unshorn and roughlyclad, who lurked in the shadows of the great hall, and whispered ever:"France! Pascal! Traitor!"

Beautiful as an angel was the baby heir, fair with the patricianbeauty of his English mother, strong of limb as befitted the trapper'sdescendant. Unconscious of the homage paid him, he slept in hisnurse's arms, his baptismal robes sweeping the floor. 

"A sturdy fellow, my friends, " said his laughing sponsor. "An EnglishDeschamps. "

"An English Deschamps!" cried the English guests, pleased with theconceit. "Long may his line endure. "

"A traitor Deschamps!" said a voice instinct with wrath. "Unhappy man, your taint is in him!"

The revelers shrank back appalled, as from the shadows came theunbidden guest and stood among them, his mien majestic with thedignity of sorrow. Pascal alone recognized him and forced his ashenlips to speak the word: "Father. "

"Yes, your father, unhappy boy; unlettered, old and broken with theburden of your disgrace, but loyal still to God and country. I haveguarded those great virtues well, for God gave them to me, and I wouldhave transmitted them to my posterity, and linked the name ofDeschamps forever with patriotism and Faith. But your treachery hasdestroyed my hope and smirched the memory of your brothers, whosenames are written on the roll of martyrs to their Faith and country. Ah, Pascal, how I loved you! And your son? An English Deschamps yousay! A son born to perpetuate his father's degradation! No, Pascal, Ishall save my honor! Your traitor blood shall never taint posterity. You may live your life of misery, but you shall live it alone. "

And snatching the child from its nurse's arms the old trapper passedfrom the house and had reached his canoe before the stupefied revelerswere roused into pursuit. But they had no boats. The old trapper haddriven holes through the sides of every one but his own. 

With swift strokes Deschamps paddled down the St. Lawrence, throughthe rocky entrance to the Saguenay, and over its dark waters till aharbor was reached in a cleft of the coast. Here the madman landed, climbed to the summit of the rock, and laying down the boy, kindled afire of driftwood. "I may see his face, " he muttered. "The last of myline! The English cross shows! The strain shows! I must wash it out!Hush, my little one, thy grandfather guards thee; soon shalt thousleep in my arms--arms that cradled thy father, and shall hold theeforever. I, who was ever gentle, who spared the birds and beasts, andsorrowed with the trapped beaver, will spare thee, too, my baby--willsave thee from thy father. Here where the wind speaks of freedom; herewhere the river even in its anger, as to-night, whispers peace; herewhere Deschamps worked and hoped; here where Deschamps sorrowed andmourned; here, little one, shall we rest together. Child, for you andme life means disgrace; the better part is death and freedom. "

A leap from the rock! The baptismal robes, fluttering white likeangels' wings, dipped to the surface and disappeared. The race ofDeschamps was ended. The black water of Saguenay was its pall, thestorm its requiem. 

THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE

The three men who sat together around the little library table of theRectory felt the unpleasant tension of a half-minute of dead silence. The big burly one, with his feet planted straight on the carpet, passed his tongue over his lips and nervously folded and opened thepaper in his hands. The tall young chap with creased trousers keptcrossing and re-crossing his legs. Neither of them looked at the youngpriest, who ten minutes before had welcomed them with a merry laughand had placed them in the most comfortable chairs of his littlebookish den, as cordially as if they were the best friends he had inthe world. Now the young priest looked old and the half-minute haddone it. He was just an enthusiastic boy when the contractor andarchitect arrived; but he was a care-filled man now, as he sat andnervously passed a handkerchief over his forehead, to find it wet, though the room was none too warm. He seemed to be surmounting anactual physical barrier when he spoke to the big man. 

"I do not quite see, Mr. McMurray" (it had been "John" ten minutesbefore), "I do not quite see, " he repeated anxiously, "how I can oweyou so much. You know our contract was plain, and the bid that Iaccepted from you was six thousand eight hundred dollars. "

"Yes, sur; yes, sur; it was, sur, " answered McMurray with shiftingembarrassment, "but you know these other things were extras, sur. "

"But I did not order any extras, Mr. McMurray, " urged the priest. 

"Yes, sur; yes, sur, you did, sur. I told you the foundations wassandy, sur, and that we had to go down deeper than the specificationscalled fur. It cost in labor, sur, "--McMurray did not seem to beenjoying his explanation--"fur diggin' and layin' the stone. Then youknow, sur, it takes more material to do it, sur. You said, yes--to goahead, sur. "

"But you did not tell me it would cost more, " urged the priest. 

"No, sur; no, sur; I didn't, sur; but a child would know that. Nowlook here at the plans. "

"Just a minute, Mr. McMurray, " broke in the architect, suavely. "Letme explain. You see, Father, I was your representative both asarchitect and superintendent of the building. I know that McMurray'sbill of extras is right. I passed on them and everything he did wasnecessary. There are extras, you know, on every building. "

"But, " said the priest, "I told you I had only eight thousand dollars, and that the furnishings would take all over the amount called for bythe contract. You can not expect to get blood out of a stone. Here nowyou say I must pay a thousand dollars more; but where can I get themoney?"

"Well, Father, " said the architect, "I don't think you will have toworry much about that. You priests always manage somehow, and you gotoff cheap enough. That church is worth ten thousand dollars, if it'sworth a cent; and McMurray did you a clean, nice job. Now one thousanddollars won't hurt you; the Bishop will be reasonable and you will getthe money in a year or so. "

"It looks as if I had to get it, somehow. I don't see how I can doanything else, " answered the priest. "This thing has sort of stunnedme. Give me one month and let me do my best. I wish I had neverstarted that building at all. "

"Yes, sur; yes, sur, " said McMurray quickly. "You can have a month, sur. I am not a hard man, sur; but I've got to pay off me workers, youknow. But take the month, sur, take it--take it. "

McMurray looked longingly at the door. 

All three had arisen; but the priest's step had lost its spring as heescorted his visitors out. 

Both of them were silent for the distance of a block away from theRectory, and then McMurray said:

"Yes, sur; yes, sur; I feel like ----. "

"I do too, " broke in the architect. "I know what you were going tosay. He took it pretty hard. "

Not another word was spoken by either of them until the hotel wasreached, and they had drowned the recollection of the young face, withthe look of age upon it, in four drinks at the bar. 

When the priest, with a slight look of relief, closed the door uponhis visitors and bolted it after them, he had perhaps seen a littlehumor in the situation; but the bolting of the door was the only signof it. His face was still grave when he stood, silent and stunned, staring at the bill on the table. 

"The good Lord help me, " he prayed. "One thousand dollars and theBishop coming in two weeks! What can I say to him? What can I do?"

He pulled out a well thumbed letter from his pocket and read it tohimself, though he knew every word by heart. 

 "DEAR FATHER RYAN, --I am pleased at your success, especially that you built the church, as I told you to, without debt. The congregation is too poor for any such burden. I will be there for the dedication on the 26th. 

 "And by the way. You may get ready for that change I spoke of. I am as good as my word, and will not delay about promoting you. The parish of Lansville is vacant. In a month you may consider yourself its pastor. In the meantime, I will look around to select one of the young men to take your place and begin the work of building a house. God bless you. 

 "Sincerely yours in Christ, THOMAS, _Bishop of Tolma_. 

"All these years, " whispered the young priest, "all these years, Ihave waited for that place. I meant to have a home and mother with me, and at least enough to live on after my ten years of sacrifice; butone thousand dollars spoils it all. How can I raise it? I can not doit before the 26th and the Bishop will ask for my report. How can Itell him after that letter?"

He dropped the letter over the contractor's bill and sat down, withdiscouragement written on every line of his face. He was trying tothink out the hardest problem of his life. 

The town wherein Father Ryan had built his church had been for yearson the down-grade, so far as religion was concerned. There were in itforty indifferent, because neglected, Catholic families. They had justenough religion left in them to desire a little more, and they had acertain pride left, too, in their Faith. 

Father Ryan builded on that pride. It was a long and arduous work hehad faced. But after ten years he succeeded in erecting the littlechurch. His warnings to the architect had gone without heed; and hefound himself plunged into what was for him an enormous debt, just atthe time when promotion was assured. 

All night long his problem was before him, and in the morning it wasprompt to rise up and confront him. 

After breakfast the door-bell rang. He answered it himself, to findtwo visitors on the steps. One was a very venerable looking oldpriest, who had a kindly way about him and who laid his grip verytenderly on the floor before he shook hands with Father Ryan. Hiscompanion looked vastly different as he flung a little satchel intothe corner, and with a voice as big and hearty as his body informedhis host that both had come to stay over Sunday. 

"Barry and I have been off for two weeks and we got tired of it, " saidFather Fanning, the big man. "First vacation in ten years for both ofus, but there is nothing to it. Barry got worrying over his school, and I got worrying over Barry, so there you are. "

"But why didn't both of you go home?" asked Father Ryan. 

"Home! confound it, that's the trouble. I would give anything to go onthe other ten miles and get off the train at my little burg, and sowould Barry, for that matter; but we were both warned to stay awayuntil Wednesday--reception and all that sort of thing. So now we aregoing to stay here. "

"That's all right, " said Father Ryan. "I am glad to have you, but thisis Saturday and to-morrow is Sunday, and--"

"Now, now, go easy, young man, go easy. I simply won't preach. It isno use asking me. I am on a vacation, I tell you. So is Barry. Hewon't talk, so I have to defend him. You wouldn't want a man to workon his vacation, would you?"

"Well, if you won't, you won't, " replied Father Ryan, "but you willsay the late Mass, anyhow? You'll have to do something for yourboard. "

"All right, I will, then. Barry can say his Mass in private, and yousay the first, yourself. Then you can preach as short and as well asyou can, which is not saying much for you. "

"Well, seeing that it is Seminary Collection Sunday, " interruptedFather Ryan, "I won't lack for a subject. "

Father Ryan had a great weakness for the Seminary, which was entitledto an annual collection in the entire Diocese. He had studied therefor six years and, since his ordination, not one of his old professorshad been changed. Then he knew his obligations to the Seminary; he wasone of those who took obligations seriously. So Father Fanning wasobliged, after hearing the sermon next day, to change his mindregarding his friend's ability to preach well. Father Ryan's discoursewas an appeal, simple and heartfelt, for his Alma Mater. 

He closed it very effectively: "I owe the Seminary, my dear friends, "he said, "about all that I have of priestly equipment. Nothing that Imay ever say or do can repay even a mite of the obligation that isupon me. As for you, and the other Catholics of this Diocese, you owethe Seminary for nine-tenths of the priests who have been successfullycarrying on God's work in your midst. The collection to-day is forthat Seminary. In other words, it is for the purpose of helping totrain priests who shall take our places when we are gone. On theSeminary depends the future of the Church amongst you: therefore, thefuture of religion in your families. Looking at this thing in aselfish way, for the present alone, there is perhaps no need of givingyour little offering to this collection; but if you are thinking ofyour children and your children's children, and the future ofreligion, not only in this community but all over our State, and evenin the Nation, you will be generous--even lavish, in your gifts. Thisis a poor little parish. We have struggled hard, God knows, to buildour church, and we need every dollar we can scrape together; but Iwould rather be in need myself than refuse this appeal. I am entitledby the laws of the Diocese to take out of the collection the averageamount of the Sunday collection. I would be ungrateful if I took acent, so I don't intend to. Every dollar, every penny that you putinto this collection shall be sent to the Bishop for the Seminary; tohelp him educate worthy priests for our Diocese. "

After Mass, Father Fanning shook hands with the preacher. 

"I feel ashamed of myself, Ryan, " he said, "that I never looked atthings in such a light before. That was a great appeal you made. Mycollection is probably postponed until next Sunday, when I get home totake it up; and I tell you I am going to use every bit of that sermonthat I can remember. "

Father Ryan had had little time to think over his troubles since histwo friends arrived; but, somehow, they seemed to worry him now thatthe sermon was off his mind. The one thousand dollar debt was weighingupon him even when he went to the door of the church to meet some ofthe people. 

A stranger brushed past him--a big, bluff, hearty looking man, allbone and muscle, roughly dressed and covered with mud. There was atwo-horse rig from the livery, at the curb. The stranger started forit; but turned back on seeing the priest. 

"I am a stranger here, Father, " he said. "I have just come down fromthe mountains, where I have been prospecting. I have to drive over toCaanan to get the fast train. I find that you have no trains here onSunday. I hadn't been to Mass for three months, for we have no placeto go out there where I was; so it was a great consolation for me todrop in and hear a good sermon. And I tell you it _was_ a goodsermon. That was a great appeal you made. "

Father Ryan could only murmur, "Thank you. You are not staying verylong with us?"

"No, I can't stay, Father. I have to get to New York and report onwhat I found. I have about fourteen miles of mud before me now, andhave driven twenty miles this morning. I don't belong around here atall. I live in New York; but I may be here a good deal later, and youare the nearest priest to me. Take this and put it in the collection. "

The rough man shoved a note into Father Ryan's hand. By this time theyboth had reached the livery rig. A quick "Good-bye" from the visitor, and a "God bless you" from Father Ryan, ended the conversation. 

The priest thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the house. When he entered the dining-room, Father Fanning was taking breakfastat the table. Father Barry was occupying himself with a book, which hefound difficulty in reading, on account of the enthusiastic commentsof his friend on Father Ryan's sermon. 

"We were talking about you, Ryan, " he said. "And there is no need oftelling you what we had to say about you; but there is one thing Iwould like to ask. What's wrong with you since we came?"

"Why, nothing, " said Father Ryan. "Haven't I treated you better thanyou deserve?"

"That is all right, that is all right, " interrupted his big neighbor, "but there _is_ something wrong. You were worried at first. Then youdropped it, but you started to worry again just as soon as you cameout of the sanctuary. You were at it when we came in and you are at itnow. Come, Ryan, let us know what it is. If it is money, well--"

Father Barry looked up quickly from his book and said: "Surely, it isnot the new church, is it?"

The young pastor sat down in a chair at the table and looked at hisfriends, before he spoke. "Well, I never could keep a secret, " hesaid. "Therefore, I suppose I never will be a trusted counselor ofanybody, and must always be seeking a counselor for myself. "

"I always hate a man who can keep a secret, " said Father Fanning. "Ialways believe that the fellow who can keep a secret is the fellow youhave to watch. You never know what he is thinking about, so nobodyever is sure of him. Don't be ashamed now of not being able to keep asecret, and don't worry yourself by keeping this one. Out with it. "

"Well, it is about the church, " said Father Ryan. 

And he told his story. 

"Well, of all the strange characters I ever met, " said Father Fanning, "you certainly are the worst, Ryan. Here you are in a box about thatthousand dollars and yet this morning you gave away your own share ofthe collection, besides booming the Seminary. Why man, the Seminaryought not ask anything from you, in your present condition. But thereis no use trying to pound sense into you. What are you going to doabout this? It is too much money for Barry and myself to take care of. Bless your heart, I don't think he has fifty dollars to his name and Iwouldn't like to tell you the state of my finances. We have to thinkout some way. Maybe Barry can see the Bishop. "

"Well, we'll have to stop thinking about it, " said Father Ryan. "Imight just as well settle down where I am. I certainly will not getvery much of a promotion now. By the way, did you notice the big man, covered with mud, in the church?"

"No, " said Father Fanning, "I did not notice him. Who was he? Whatabout him?"

"He was a stranger, " said Father Ryan, "and was very pleasant. He is aprospector from New York. He has been up in the mountains and awayfrom church for the last three months. He must have found something upthere, because he is going on to New York to meet his backers; atleast, that is what I judged from his talk. He is driving over toCaanan to-day to catch the fast train. "

"I wonder if he put anything in the collection?" said Father Fanning. 

"No, he did not, " answered the pastor, "but he gave it to me afterwardand told me to put it in. By the way, here it is. "

He pulled the note out of his pocket and laid it flat on the table. The three men gasped for breath. It was a thousand dollars. 

Father Fanning was the first to find words. "Great Scott, Ryan, " hesaid, "you ought to go out and thank God on your knees before thealtar. Here is the end of your trouble. Why the man must be amillionaire. "

Father Ryan's face was all smiles. "Yes, " he said, "it is the end ofmy trouble. I never dreamed it would come to an end so easily. Thanksbe to God for it. "

The little old priest with the book in front of him seemed to have nocomment to make. He let his two friends ramble on, both overjoyed atthe good fortune that had extricated Father Ryan from his dilemma. Buthe was not reading. He was thinking. By and by he spoke. 

"What did you say you preached on to-day, Father Ryan?"

"Why, " broke in Fanning, "he preached on the Seminary. Didn't I tellyou! And a good sermon--"

"Yes, I preached on the Seminary, " said Father Ryan. 

"But did I not hear Father Fanning say that you pledged every dollarthat came into the collection to the Seminary. "

"Why, surely, " said Father Ryan, "but this did not come in through thecollection. "

"Yes, " persisted Father Barry, "but did you not say that the strangeman told you to put it into the collection?"

"Why--yes--yes, he did say something like that. "

"Well, then, " urged Father Barry, "is it not a question to be debatedas to whether or not you can do anything else with the money?"

"Oh, confound it all, Barry, " cried Father Fanning. "You are arigorist. You don't understand this case. Now there's no use bringingyour old syllogisms into this business. This man is in a hole. He hasgot to get out of it. What difference is it if I put my money in onepocket or in the other pocket. This all belongs to God anyhow. Thethousand dollar note was given to the Church, and the most necessarything now is to pay the debt on that part of it that's here. Why theSeminary doesn't need it. The old Procurator would drop dead if he gota thousand dollars from this parish. "

"Well, so far as I can see, " said Father Barry, "what you say does notchange matters any. Father Ryan promised every dollar--and every centfor that matter--in that collection to the Seminary. This money formspart of the collection. I know perfectly well that most men wouldargue as you do, but this is a case of conscience. The money was givenfor a specific purpose, and in my judgment, if Father Ryan uses it forany other purpose than the one for which it was given, he simply willhave to make restitution later on to the Seminary. 

"That's an awful way of looking at things, " said Father Fanning. "Confound it, I am glad I don't have to go to you for direction. Why, its getting worse instead of better, you are. The giver of this moneywould be only too glad to have it go to pay off the debt. What does heknow about the Seminary? He was attending the little church out here, and whatever good he got from his visit came through Father Ryan andhis people. He is under obligation to them first. Can't you see thatit does not make any difference, after all. It is the same thing. "

"No, it is not the same thing, " said Father Barry. "Perhaps we are toomuch tempted to believe that gifts of this kind might beinterchangeable. We are full of zeal for the glory of God at home, andthat means that sometimes we unconsciously are full of zeal for ourown glory. Look it up. I may be wrong, and I do not want to be akilljoy; but we would not wish our friend here to act first and do alot of sorrowful thinking afterward. "

It was Wednesday morning when the two visitors left, and thediscussions only ended when the door closed upon them. There was nota theological book in Father Ryan's library left unconsulted. 

When Father Fanning was at the door, grip in hand, he said: "Well, Iguess we have come to no conclusion, Ryan. You will have to finish it, yourself, and decide for yourself. But there is one thing I cantestify to, besides the stubbornness of my venerable friend here, andthat is that I have learned more theology out of this three-daydiscussion than I learned in three years previously. There is nothinglike a fight to keep a fellow in training. "

His friends gone, Father Ryan went straight to his desk and wrote thisletter to his Bishop:

 YOUR LORDSHIP--I am sending herewith enclosed my Seminary collection. It amounts to $1, 063. 10. You may be surprised at the first figure; but there was a thousand dollar note handed to me for that particular collection. I congratulate the Seminary on getting it. 

 "The church is ready for dedication as your Lordship arranged. 

 "Kindly wire me and I will meet you at the train. "

Then Father Ryan went to bed. He did not expect to sleep very muchthat night; but in spite of his worry, and to his own great surprise, he had the most peaceful sleep of all the years of his priesthood. 

The church was dedicated. The Bishop, severe of face, abrupt inmanner, but if the truth were known, kindly at heart, finished hiswork before he asked to see the books of the parish. 

Father Ryan was alone with his Lordship when the time for that ordealcame. He handed the books to the Bishop and laid a financial statementbefore him. The Bishop glanced at it, frowned and then read itthrough. The frown was still on his face as he looked up at the youngpriest before him. 

"This looks as if you had been practicing a little deceit upon me, Father Ryan, " he said. "You wrote me that the church was finishedwithout debt. "

"I thought so, my Lord, when I wrote you the letter. I had the moneyon hand to pay the exact amount of the contract. The architect and thebuilder came to me later and informed me that there had been extras, of which I knew nothing, amounting to one thousand dollars. I am onethousand dollars behind. I assure your Lordship that it was not myfault, except that perhaps I should have known more about the tacticsof the men I was dealing with. I will have to raise the money someway; and, of course, I do not expect your Lordship to send me toLansville. I am sorry, but I have done the best I could. I will knowmore about building next time. "

The Bishop had no word to say. Though the frown appeared pretty wellfixed upon his face, it did not seem quite natural. There was atwinkle in his eye that only an expert on bishops could perceive. 

"But you sent me one thousand dollars more than I could have expectedonly this week, for the Seminary, " he said. That surely indicates thatyou have some people here who might help you out of your dilemma. "

"I am sorry, your Lordship, " said Father Ryan, "but it does notindicate that at all. I have no rich people. All of my people havedone the best they could for the new church. I will have to give thema rest for a year and stay here and face the debt. The man who gavethe thousand dollar bill was a stranger--a miner. I do not know him atall. He did not even give his name, but said the money was for thecollection. I could not find any authority for keeping it for thechurch here, though, to be candid, I wanted to do it. That is all. "

The Bishop still kept his eye on him. "Of course you know that yourappointment to Lansville was conditional. "

"I understand that, your Lordship, " said Father Etan. "You have noobligation to me at all in that regard. "

"Will you kindly step to the door and ask my Chancellor to come in?"

When the Chancellor entered, the Bishop said to him: "Have you theletter I received from Mr. Wilcox?"

The Chancellor handed the Bishop the letter, who unfolded it and, taking another glance at the dejected young pastor, read it to him. Itwas very much to the point. 

 "DEAR BISHOP, --You may or may not know me, but I knew you when you were pastor of St. Alexis in my native town. The fact is, you baptized me. I would not even have known where you were, had it not been for a mistake I made this morning. I came down from the mountains and went to Mass at Ashford. When I was going away I gave the young priest a thousand dollar note. If you recognize my name, you will understand that it was not too much for me to give, for though I am a stingy sort of fellow, the Lord has blessed me with considerable wealth. I remember saying to the young priest that I wanted him to put it in the collection, which as I remember now, was for the Seminary. I figured it out that he would be sending the collection to you. 

 "Now, I don't like to disappoint you, dear Bishop, but I did not intend that money to go to the Seminary, but to the pastor for the little parish. Later on, when developments start in the mountains, and they will start when I get back to New York, I may need that young priest to come up and take care of my men; so I want the money to go to his church, which, from what my driver told me coming over, needs it. I may take care of the Seminary later on, for I expect to be around your section of the country a great deal in the future. 

 "Respectfully yours, "PAUL WILCOX. "

Through tear-dimmed eyes Father Ryan saw all the sternness go out ofthe Bishop's face. 

"Mr. Wilcox, " said his Lordship, "is a millionaire many times over. Heis one of the largest mine operators in the world. He likes to dothings of this kind. You may go to Lansville, Father Ryan; but Ithink, if I were you, I would stay here. When Wilcox says things aregoing to move, they usually do. Think it over and take your choice. Here is your thousand dollars. I do not find it a good thing, Father, to praise people; especially those I have to govern, so I am not goingto praise you for what you have done. It was right, and it was yourduty. I appreciate it. "

THE OCCASION

Mr. O'Brien of No. 32 Chestnut street had his entire family with him, as he hurried to the eight o'clock Mass. Mrs. O'Brien was alreadytired, though she had gone only a block from the house; for Elenora, who always was tardy, had to be dressed in a hurry. Then Tom had comedown stairs with an elegant part to that portion of his hair which wasright above his forehead, but the back section, which the mirror didnot show, was tousled and unkempt. It took an effort on Mrs. O'Brien'spart to make the children presentable; and hurry plus effort was notgood for--well, for folks who do not weigh as little as they did whenthey were younger. 

Dr. Reilly met the O'Briens at the corner. 

"Hello, " he called, "it's the whole family, bedad. What brings ye allto the 'eight o'clock'?"

Mr. O'Brien answered his family doctor only when the children wereleft behind where they could not hear: "It's Father Collins' turn topreach at the High Mass, Doc, " he explained. 

"Sure, it is, " said the Doctor. "Faith, I forgot that. I was going toHigh Mass meself, but I ran over to see ye. Yes, it's his turn. Sure, the poor man puts me to sleep, and sleepin' in the House of God isneither respectful nor decorous. But what is a man to do?"

"He is the finest priest in the city, " said Mr. O'Brien, looking backto see if his regiment was following, "and the worst preacher. I can'tsit still and listen to him. He loses his voice the minute he getsbefore the people, and some day I think he'll pull the pulpit down, trying to get his words out. Faith, Doc, he makes me want to get upand say it for him. "

"Well, O 'Brien, I believe you could say it, judging from the way youlecture us at the council meetings. And that brings me to the businessI had when I ran off to see you. Couldn't you let the Missis take careof the children at this Mass? McGarvey wants to talk over somethingwith us. He's sick and can't get out. We'd both go to the 'nineo'clock' and that will miss the sermon, too. "

Mr. O'Brien nodded his head complacently. They had reached the frontof the church, and whom should they meet but Father Collins hurryingout from the vestry on his way to the rectory across the street. 

"Good morning, Father, " cried the children in chorus, just as they didwhen one of the priests visited their room in the parochial school. The two men touched their hats in greeting. Father Collins returnedthe salute. He crossed the street quickly and ran up stairs to hisown room in the rectory, but did not notice that O'Brien and thedoctor went past the church. 

Be it known that Father Collins was the third assistant. He had beenordained one year. The first assistant, who was still fasting, withthe obligation of singing High Mass upon him, was installed in FatherCollins' favorite chair, when the owner of it entered. 

"Come in, come in, Collins, come in to your own house, " the firstassistant called. "Come in, man, and be at home. I couldn't sleep, soI had to get up and wait around, hungry enough; but, " he had caughtthe expression on his friend's face, "what is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing much, nothing much, " replied Father Collins, "only I seethe whole parish is turning out to-day for the eight o'clock Mass. TheO'Briens and Doctor Reilly have just gone in. You know, they always goto High Mass. "

"Which, " remarked Father Grady, "is no compliment either to mysinging, or your Eminence's preaching, or to both. "

"Oh, your singing is all right, " assured Father Collins. 

"Well, " said Father Grady, "I accept the correction. I am a modestman, but I must acknowledge that I can sing--at least, relativelyspeaking, for I haven't very much to compete against. However, if itis not my singing, then it must be your preaching. "

"It is, it is, " answered his friend, with just a touch of shakiness inhis voice. "Look here Grady, you know I made a good course in theSeminary. You know I am not an ignoramus and you know that I workhard. I prepare every sermon and write it out; when the manuscript isfinished I know it by heart. Now, here is the sermon for to-day. Lookat it and if you love me, read it. Tell me what is wrong with it. "

Father Grady took the papers and began to look them over, while FatherCollins picked up a book and pretended to be interested in it. Intruth, he was glancing at his companion very anxiously over the top, until the manuscript had been laid down. 

"My dear Collins, you are right, " said Father Grady. "It is a goodsermon. I wish I could write one half as good. There is absolutelynothing wrong with it. "

"But, " urged Father Collins, "I shall spoil it. "

"Well, " said his friend, "candor compels me to acknowledge that youprobably shall. I don't know why. Can't you raise your voice? Can'tyou have courage? The people won't bite you. You can talk well enoughto the school children. You can talk well enough to me. Why can't youstand up and be natural? Just be yourself and talk to them as you talkto us. That is the whole secret. "

"It is my nervousness, Grady, " said Father Collins. "I am afraid theminute I enter the church to preach. When I open my mouth, I lose myvoice out of fear. That is what it is--fear. I am simply an arrantcoward. I tell you, Grady, I hate myself for it. "

"Now, look here, " said his companion earnestly, "you are not a coward. You can preach. It is in you, and it will come out, yet. I call thissermon nothing short of a masterpiece. If you can not brace up now, the occasion will come to loosen your tongue. It surely will. "

"This is the worst day I have had, " groaned poor Father Collins. "I amshaking like a leaf, already. Look here, Grady, do me a favor justthis once. You preach so easily. You can get up a sermon in half anhour. You have nothing to do until half past ten. Now, let me go outand make the announcements and read the Gospel at the nine o'clockMass. Most of the children will be there and I can say a few words tothem. You preach at High Mass. "

"Well, I ought not to do it, " said Father Grady, thoughtfully, "for ifI do such things, it may spoil you. You ought not to give way, but--you are white as a sheet, man. Well, I am going to do it thistime, so I had better look over something. "

Father Collins was overjoyed. He could not help it. He went to thechurch to prepare for the Mass and prompt to the minute he was in thesanctuary. 

The Mass had proceeded as far as the end of the first Gospel, when theSacristan came to the priest's side and whispered a message. He wasplainly excited, and trying hard to conceal it from the congregation. Father Collins leaned over to hear what he had to say. 

"Keep your head, Father. There is a fire in the church basement now, right under your feet. The firemen are working on it, but can't put itout. We have stopped people from coming in to stampede the others. Thegalleries are filled with the children, and we have to get them out, first. If there is a rush the children will be killed at the bottom ofthe gallery stairs, where they meet the people from the body of thechurch out in that vestibule. The chief sent me to you to tell you togo on preaching and hold the grown folks down stairs for ten minutes. The firemen will get the little ones out without noise or fuss, if youcan keep the attention of the people. I'll whisper 'all right' to youwhen they are gone. Then you tell the rest to file out quietly. It isthe only chance you have to save those children in this ramshackle oldbuilding, so you preach for all you are worth and don't let the peoplelook up at the galleries. There will be hundreds of little ones owetheir lives to you, Father, if you can hold the fort. "

The Sacristan left and, with a gasp of horror, the priest thought ofthe galleries emptying into the little vestibule and meeting a rush ofthe people from the church. 

Father Collins took off his chasuble and maniple and placed them uponthe altar. He wondered at his own coolness. He advanced to the frontof the altar platform, opening his book; but he closed it againcoolly. Then, in a clear voice, that reached every corner of thebuilding, which he could not believe was his own, he began. 

"On second thought, my friends, " he said, "I will not read the Epistleor the Gospel to-day. I have a few words to say to you, though asermon is not expected at this Mass. "

In a front pew Doctor Reilly and Mr. O'Brien groaned softly. They hadbeen caught by the dreaded sermon. 

Father Collins announced his text. The congregation was surprised thatit was to have a sermon instead of the usual reading, but it was moresurprised at the change in Father Collins; so much, indeed, that itwas almost breathless. The priest glanced up at the gallery, quickly, and saw that the children had begun to leave the rear pews. He had tenminutes to fill in. The people below could see only the front rows ofthe gallery, which in this church, built in the old style, ran onthree sides. So Father Collins preached. It was the sermon he hadprepared for the High Mass, but which he could not deliver. Thebeauty of it had been plain to Father Grady when he read it; but itwas plainer to the enraptured congregation which sat listening toevery syllable. Neither the Doctor nor Mr. O'Brien attempted to sleep. In fact there were no sleepers at all, for upright in the pews satevery man and woman, hanging on the preacher's words. 

In the midst of his discourse Father Collins detected the smell ofsmoke and thought that all was lost. But he made another effort. Hisvoice rose higher and his words thundered over the heads of theastonished people, who were so rapt that they could not even askthemselves what had wrought the miracle. If they smelled the smoke, they gave no sign, for a born orator, who had found himself, held themin the grip of his eloquence. Father Collins took another glance atthe gallery. The front row would go in a moment. Above all, the peoplemust not be distracted now. Something must be done to hold theirattention when the noise of the moving of that front row would fallupon their ears. In two minutes all would be well. That two minuteswere the greatest of the priest's life. Into them centered every bitof intensity, earnestness and enthusiasm he possessed. He rapidlyskipped part of his sermon and came to the burst of appeal, with whichhe was to close. The people could see him tremble in every limb. Hisface was as white as his surplice. His eyes were wide open andshining as if he were deeply moved by his own pleadings. He quicklydescended the steps of the altar and advanced to the railing. Thecongregation did not dare to take its eyes away from him. The noise ofthe departing children fell upon unheeding ears. The intensity of theman had been transferred to his listeners. A whispered 'all right'reached the priest from the lips of the Sacristan behind, and FatherCollins stopped. His voice dropped back to the tone with which hebegan his discourse. It was a soft, musical voice, that people tillnow did not know he possessed. 

"My friends, " he said, "keep your seats for a moment. Those in thefront pews will go out quietly now. Let one pew empty at a time. Donot crowd. There is no danger, at present, but a fire has broken outbelow, and we want to take every precaution for safety. "

"Stop, " he thundered, and his voice went up again. "You, who areleaving from the center of the church, remain in your seats. Do notstart a rush. Do not worry about the children, they are all out. Lookat the galleries. They are empty. The children were cool. Do not letthe little ones shame you. Now, give the old and feeble a chance. "

With voice and gesture, he directed the movement of the people, andthen, the church emptied, he looked toward the vestry door. TheSacristan was there. 

"Hurry, Father, " he called, tearing off his cassock. "The floor heremay give way any moment. Father Grady has the Blessed Sacrament. Hurry!"

They were out before the floor fell and the flames burst into the bigchurch, which, poor old relic of the days of wood, went down into theashes of destruction. 

Mr. O'Brien of 32 Chestnut street walked home with Dr. Reilly, butneither of them had much to say. Both paused at the corner where theirways parted. 

Then Mr. O'Brien spoke: "What did you think of the sermon, Doc?"

"I think, " said the doctor, deliberately, "that though it cost us theprice of a new church, 'twas well worth it. "

THE YANKEE TRAMP

They were old cronies, M. Le Cure de St. Eustace and M. Le Cure deSte. Agatha, though the priestly calling seemed all they had incommon. The first was small of stature, thin of face, looking like amediæval, though he was a modern, saint; the other tall, well filledout like an epicure, yet not even Bonhomme Careau, the nearestapproach to a scoffer in the two parishes, ever went so far as to callthe Cure of Ste. Agatha by such an undeserved name, since the good, fat priest had the glaring fault of stinginess which all the countryknew but never mentioned. They loved him too much to mention hisfaults. He was good to the sick and faithful to their interests, though--"_Il etait fort tendu, lui, mais bien gentil, tout de meme_. "Besides, the Cure of St. Eustace was _too_ generous. Every beggar gota meal from him and some of them money, till he spoiled the wholetribe of them and they became so bold--well there was serious talk ofprotesting to the Cure of St. Eustace about his charities. 

The garden of St. Eustace was the pleasantest place on earth for boththe cronies after Vespers had been sung in their parishes on Sundayafternoons, and the three miles covered from the Presbytery of Ste. Agatha to the Presbytery of St. Eustace. On a fine day it wasdelightful to sit under the great trees and see the flowers and chatand smoke, with just the faint smell of the evening meal stealing outof Margot's kingdom. It was a standing rule that this meal was to betaken together on Sunday and the visit prolonged far into thenight--until old Pierre came with the worn-looking buggy and carriedhis master off about half-past ten. _"Grand Dieu. Quelledissipation!"_ Only on this night did either one stay up after nine. 

What experiences were told these Sunday nights! Big and authoritativewere the words of M. Le Cure de Ste. Agatha. Stern and unbending werehis comments and the accounts of his week's doings. And his friend's?_Bien_, they were not much, but "they made him a little pleasure tonarrate"--what he would tell of them. 

This night they were talking of beggars, a new phase of the oldquestion. They had only beggars in Quebec, mild old fellows mostly. Afew pennies would suffice for them, and when they got old there werealways the good Sisters of the Poor to care for them. There were notramps. 

"This fellow was different, _mon ami_, " the Cure de St. Eustace wassaying, "he would almost bother you yourself with all your experience. He came from over the line--from the States, and he had a remarkablestory. "

"_Bien oui_, they all have, " broke in his friend, "but I send them toMarie and she feeds them--nothing more. They can not trap me with anyof their foolish tales. It is not charity to give to them. I am hardof heart about such things, and very sensible. "

"Well, I will tell you about him. It will pass the time till dinner. Ifound the man seated on the gallery in front. He spoke only English. When I came up he arose and took off his cap, very politely for aYankee too. But, God forgive me, I had no right to say that, for theYankees are as the _bon Dieu_ made them and they are too busy to bepolite. 

"'You are the priest?' he asked me. 

"'Yes, Monsieur, I am. '

"'You speak English?'

"'Enough to understand. What is it?'

"'I am not a tramp, Father, '--he looked very weary and sad--'and it isnot money; though I am very hungry. You will give me something?Thanks, but I want you to hear my story first. Yes, you can help--verymuch. '

"I gave him a seat and he dropped into it. 

"'Father, do not be shocked if I tell you that I am just out ofprison. I was discharged yesterday in New York and I lost no time incoming here. This is not my first visit. I was here ten years ago withmy chum. We were burglars and we were running away after a bigoperation in New York. We had stolen $8, 000 in money and valuables, and we had it all with us. We wanted to rest here in this quietvillage till the storm would blow over. Among the valuables was astrange ring. I had never seen anything like it and my chum wanted itfor himself, but we were afraid and took it to one of yourjewelers--right down the street to the left--Nadeau was his name--tohave it altered a little and made safe to wear. That little jewelersuspected us. I saw it at once and we were alarmed. He informed theconstable of the ring matter. We were watched and then we saw that itwould be better to go. We feared that the New York police would learnof us, so we took the stuff out three miles in the country one darknight and buried it. I know the spot, for it is near the old schoolwhere the road turns for Sherbrooke. Then we went West, to Michigan. We broke into a store there and we were arrested, but New York heardof the capture and the Michigan authorities gave us up. We were triedand a lawyer defended us by the Judge's order. He got us off with tenyears in Sing Sing. I have been there till yesterday, as I told you. My chum? Well, that brings me to it. Pardon me. I did not intend tobreak down. He is dead. He died well. A priest converted him, and mychum repented of his life and begged me to change mine when I got out. I am going to do it, Father. I am, so help me God. I'll never forgethis death. He called me and said: 'Bunky, that loot is worrying me. The priest says that it must be returned if the owner or his heirs canbe found. If they can not it must be spent in works of charity. Promise me that you will go to St. Eustace and get it, Bunky, and giveit back. Promise!'

"Then he broke down, _mon ami_, and I fear that I cried just a littletoo. It was sad, for he was a great strong man. 

"When he could, he looked up and continued: 'Well, Father, I am hereto do it. I want your help. May I have it?'

"I told him I would do what I could. He wanted me to take the moneyand give it to the owner. He would tell me his name. I was glad to aidthe poor man who was so repentant. 

"'All I want is a pick and shovel and a reliable man to go with meto-night. I can find the place, ' he said. 

"I offered to send the sexton with him and let him have the pick andshovel from the cemetery. I gave him food and thanked God as I watchedhim eat, that grace was working in his heart again. 

"'I will wait for the man at seven to-night, Father, ' he said when hewas leaving. 'Let him meet me with the horse and buggy just outside ofthe town. If there is danger I will not see him, and he can return. Iwill take the pick and shovel now, and bring the stuff to you in avalise by 10 o'clock. Wait up for me. '

"He left and the sexton went to the road at seven, but did not seehim. At 10 o'clock I heard him coming. It was very dark and he knockedsharply and quickly, as if afraid. I opened the door and he thrust avalise into my hand. It was heavy. 

"'Here it is, Father. Keep it till morning when I will bring the key. The valise is locked. Give me something that I may buy a night'slodging and I will come back at seven. '

"I gave him the first note in my purse and he hurried away. 

"Now I fear, _mon ami_, that I never quite overcame my childishcuriosity, for I felt a burning desire to see all that treasure, especially the strange ring. I must root out that fault before I dieor my purgatory will be long. I went to the kitchen where I had a goodchisel, and I am sorry to confess that I opened the valise just a verylittle to see the heap of precious things. There was an old cigar-boxand something heavy rolled in cotton. I thrust the chisel down till Iopened the box. There was no treasure in it at all, but just a lot ofiron-shavings. I felt that I had been fooled and I broke the valiseopen. The heavy stuff rolled in the cotton was only a lot of oldcoupling-pins from the railroad. I was disgusted with this sinner, this thief. But it was droll--it was droll--and I could scarcelysleep with laughing at the whole farce. I know that was sinful. Ishould have cried. But he was clever, that Yankee tramp. "

[Illustration: "Mon Dieu! It was mine. "]

"And the valise? What did you do with it?" asked the hard-hearted Cureof Ste. Agatha, who must have felt sorry that the friend could be soeasily duped. "What did you do with the valise?"

"I let it go. I knew that he had left it with me and I couldn'tunderstand why. It was so good--almost new. I felt that the sight ofit would make me hard to the poor who really were deserving. I wantedto forget how foolish I was, so I gave it to the good Sisters at theHospital, to use when they must travel to Sherbrooke. "

The Cure of Ste. Agatha was agitated. He plainly wanted to speak butchoked back twice. Then he rose and looked at his friend with a faceas red as fire, and started toward the gate. He took two steps, cameback, and spoke rapidly. "Do you think the Sisters will bring it back, the valise? _Mon Dieu_! It was mine. "

Ten miles from St. Eustace and thirteen miles from Ste. Agatha aYankee tramp was hurrying toward the parish of Ste. Catherine. He hadthe money for one pick and one shovel in his pocket keeping companywith one note from the purse of the generous Cure of St. Eustace andone of a much larger denomination, from the wise but hard-heartedCure of Ste. Agatha, who never gave to tramps. 

And this is the lesson of the story as the Cure of St. Eustace saw it:that some gloomy and worried millionaires are lost to the States, tomake a few irresponsible but happy rascals who live by their wits, andwhose sins even are amusing. One must not blame them overmuch. 

As to the Cure of Ste. Agatha. He has no opinions on the matter atall, for the Sisters gave him back his new valise. 

HOW FATHER TOM CONNOLLY BEGAN TO BE A SAINT

If you knew Father Tom Connolly, you would like him, because--well, just because Father Tom Connolly was one of the kind whom everybodyliked. He had curly black hair, over an open and smiling face; he wasbig, but not too big, and he looked the priest, the _soggarth aroon_kind, you know, so that you just felt that if you ever did get intodifficulties, Father Tom Connolly would be the first man for you totalk it all over with. But Father Tom had a large parish, in agood-sized country town, to look after; and so, while you thought thatyou might monopolize all of his sympathy in your bit of possibletrouble, he had hundreds whose troubles had already materialized, andwas waiting for yours with a wealth of experience which would onlymake his smile deeper and his grasp heartier when the task ofconsoling you came to his door and heart. 

Now, there lived in the same town as Father Tom another priest ofquite a different make. He, too, had a Christian name. It was Peter;but no one ever called him Father _Peter_. Every one addressed him asFather _Ilwin_. Somehow this designation alone fitted him. It was notthat this other priest was unkind--not at all--but it was just that inFather Tom's town he did not quite fit. 

Father Ilwin had been sent by the Bishop to build a new church, andthat on a slice of Father Tom's territory, which the Bishop lopped offto form a new parish. Father Ilwin was young. He had no rich brogue onhis tongue to charm you into looking at his coat in expectationof seeing his big heart burst out to welcome you. He wasthoughtful-looking and shy, so he did not get on well and his newchurch building grew very slowly. 

I have given you the characters of my little story, but, for the lifeof me, I can not tell you which one is to be the hero and which thevillain--but, let that go, for I am sure of one thing at least: thisstory has no villain. But it followed just as naturally as day followsnight--for which figure of speech, my thanks to Mr. Shakespeare--thatwhen Father Ilwin failed to do well, he grew gloomy and sad; and justas naturally--God help us--there was enough of human nature in FatherTom to say, "I told you so" to himself, and to have him pity FatherIlwin to others in that superior sort of way that cuts and stings morethan a whip of scorpions. Then, when Father Tom spoke to some of hispeople of Father Ilwin's poor success and said, "He meant well, goodlad, " they all praised the soft, kind heart of Father Tom; but whenFather Ilwin heard of this great kindness he just shut his lipstightly, and all the blood was chased from his set face to grip hisheart in a spell of resentment. Why? Oh, human nature, you know! andhuman nature explains a lot of things which even story-writers have togive up. Of course, people _did_ say that Father Ilwin was ungraciousand unappreciative; yet, as I write, much as I like Father Tom, I havea tear in my eye for the lonely man who knew well that the onlyobstacle to his success was the _one_ that people never _could_ see, and that the _obstacle himself_ was never _likely_ to see. 

But let us go on. Of all the things in this world that Father Tombelieved in, it was that his "parish rights" were first and foremost. So he never touched foot in his neighbor's parish, except to pay him afriendly visit, or to go to his righteous confession. He visited nohomes out of his territory, though he had baptized pretty nearly everylittle curly-headed fairy in each. They were his no longer and thatwas enough. He wanted no visitor in his limits either, except on thesame terms. So no one in Father Tom's parish had helped much inbuilding the church across the river. The people understood. 

It had never occurred to Father Tom that his own purse--not _too_large, but large enough--might stand a neighborly assessment. No, hehad "built his church by hard scraping, and that is how churchesshould be built. " Now, do not get a bad opinion of Father Tom on thisaccount. He thought he was right, and perhaps he was. It is not for meto criticize Father Tom, whom every poor person in the town loved as afather; only I did feel sorry that poor Father Ilwin grew so thin andworn, and that his building work was stopped, and people did not seemto sympathize with him, at all, at all. Over in his parish there wereopen murmurs that "the people had built one church and should not beasked now to build another"; or "what was good enough for Father Tomwas good enough for anyone"; or "the Bishop should have consulted _us_before he sent this young priest into Father Tom's parish. " In theother part of the town, however, everything was quiet enough, and nonewould think of offending his pastor by showing any interest in FatherIlwin, financially or otherwise. Father Ilwin said nothing; but do youwonder that one day when a generous gift was announced from "the Rev. Thomas Connolly, our respected fellow citizen, " to help in theerection of a Soldier's Monument for the town, Father Ilwin read itand went back into his room, where, on the table, were laid out theplans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby?

[Illustration: "Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, where on the table were laid out the plans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby. "]

It happened that Father Tom rarely ever left his parish, which wasagain much to his credit with the people. "Sure, _he_ never takes avacation at all, " they said. But at last a call came that he could notrefuse, and, having carefully made his plans to secure a monk from amonastery quite far away to take his place over Sunday, he left to seea sick brother from whom he had seldom heard, and who lived far in theSouthwest. Perhaps it was significant, perhaps not--I do not know, andI do not judge--that Father Tom was particular to say in his letter tothe monastery that, "as the weather is warm, the father who comes totake my place need only say a Low Mass and may omit the usual sermon. "It was known that Father Tom did not care for preachers from outside. He could preach a little himself, and he knew it. 

It was a long and tiresome journey to the bedside of Father Tom'sdying brother, so when the big, good-natured priest stepped off thetrain at Charton station in Texas, he was worn out and weary. But hesoon had to forget both. A dapper young man was waiting for him in abuggy. The young lad had a white necktie and wore a long coat ofclerical cut. Father Tom passed the buggy, but was called back by itsoccupant. 

"Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?"

"I am, " said the priest in surprise. 

"Then father is waiting for you. I am your nephew. Get in with me. "

Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction. 

"You--you are a clergyman?" he stammered. 

"Oh, yes! Baptist pastor over in the next village. Father was always aRomanist, but the rest of us, but one, are Christians. "

If you could only have seen Father Tom's face. No more was said; nomore was needed. In a few minutes the buggy stopped before theConnolly farm home and Father Tom was with his brother. He lost notime. 

"Patrick, " said he, "is that young Baptist minister your son?"

"Yes, Tom, he is. "

"Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died before she knew. 'Twill be nowarm welcome she'll be giving ye on the other side. "

"Perhaps not, Tom. I've thought little of these things, except as tohow I might forget them, till now. Somehow, it doesn't seem quiteright. But I did the best I could. I have one of the children to showher. "

"How did _one_ stay?"

"She didn't _stay_. She came back to the Faith. She was converted by apriest who was down here for his health and who was stationed in thistown for about a year. He went back North when he got better. I wouldnot have sent even for you, Tom, only _she_ made me. "

Father Tom felt something grip his heart and he did not speak for along minute. Then he took his brother's hand and said in his old boylanguage: "Paddy, lad, tell me all about it--how you fell away. Maybethere was something of an excuse for it. "

"I thought there was, " said the dying man, "but now all seemsdifferent. When I came here first, I was one of the few Catholicsettlers, and I was true to my religion. I saw the other churchesbuilt, but never went into them, though they tried hard enough to getme, God knows. But I was fool enough to let a pretty face catch me. Itwas a priest from Houston who married us. She never interfered; andlater a few more Catholics came. The children were all baptized and wegot together to build a church. I gave the ground and all I had in thebank--one hundred and fifty dollars. We were only a few, but we got athousand dollars in all. We could get no more, and money was bringingtwelve per cent, so we couldn't borrow. We had to give it all back andwait. Without church or priest, the children went to theSunday-schools and--I lost them. Then, I, somehow, seemed to driftuntil this priest came for his health. He got us few Catholicstogether and converted my best--my baby girl--Kathleen. She was namedafter mother, Tom. We could only raise eight hundred dollars thistime, but the priest said: 'I'll go to my neighbors and ask help. ' Sohe went over to Father Pastor and Father Lyons, but they refused tohelp at all. They have rich parishes, whose people would be glad togive something; but the priests said, 'No. ' They thought helping was amistake. It hurt our priest, for he could do nothing on eight hundreddollars. We needed only another five hundred. But that ended thestruggle. I say my beads and wait alone. Murphy and Sullivan wentaway. Keane died. His family are all 'fallen away. ' My boy went to acollege his mother liked--and you saw him. The others--exceptKathleen--are all Baptists. I suppose I have a heavy load to bearbefore the judgment seat, but Tom--Tom, you don't know the struggle itcost, and the pain of losing was greater than the pain of the fight. "

A beautiful girl came into the room. The sick man reached out his handwhich she took as she sat beside him. 

"This is Kathleen, Tom. He's your uncle and a priest, my darling. Shesits by me this way, Tom, and we say our beads together. I know itwon't be long now, dearie, 'till you can go with your uncle wherethere is a church and a chance to profit by it. "

Father Tom closed his brother's eyes two days later. 

He left with Kathleen when the funeral was over. His nephewaccompanied them to the train and said with unction:

"Good-bye, brother, I shall pray for you, " and Father Tom groaned downto his heart of hearts. 

Father Ilwin was at the train when Father Tom and his niece arrivedhome, though quite by accident. Kathleen's eyes danced when she sawhim and she rushed to shake hands. Father Tom said:

"Sure, I had no idea that you knew one another. "

"Yes, indeed, we do, " cried the child. "Why, uncle, it was Father_Peter_ who converted me. "

Father Tom heard, but did not say a word. 

It was only three days later when Father Tom stood in the miserablelittle room that Father Ilwin called his library. On the table stillreposed the plans of the new church, but no sound of hammer was heardoutside. Father Tom had little to say, but it was to the point. He hadprofited by his three days at home to think things out. He had arrivedat his conclusions, and they were remarkably practical ones. 

"Ilwin, me lad, I don't think I've treated ye just as a priest andChristian should--but I thought I was right. I know now that I wasn't. Ilwin, _we_ can build that church and _we will_. Here are a thousanddollars as a start to show that I mean it. There'll be a collectionfor you in St. Patrick's next Sunday. After that I intind going aboutwith ye. I think I know where we can get some more. "

Then and there Father Tom Connolly began to be a Saint. 

THE UNBROKEN SEAL

The priest ran right into a mob of strikers as he turned the corner ofthe road leading from the bridge over the shallow, refuse-filled MudRun, and touched foot to the one filthy, slimy street of the town. Hewas coming from the camp of the militia, where he had been called toadminister the last Sacraments to a lieutenant, whom the strikers hadshot down the night before. 

Slevski was haranguing the mob and his eye caught that of the priestwhile he was in the midst of an impassioned period, but a look of hatealone showed that he had seen him. Only a few of the people in therear of the crowd noticed the priest's presence at all. He was gladenough of that, for suspicion was in the air and he knew it. Right inhis way was Calvalho, who had been one of his trustees and his verybest friend when he first came to the parish. It looked now as if hehad no longer a friend in all the mud-spattered, bare and coal-grimedtown. Calvalho returned his salute with a curt nod. The priest caughta few words of Slevski's burning appeal to hatred and walked faster, with that peculiar nervous feeling of danger behind him. He quickenedhis steps even more for it. 

"Company--oppressors of the poor--traitors"; even these few words, which followed him, gave the priest the gist of the whole tirade. 

The women were in the crowd or hanging about the edges of it. A crashof glass behind him made the priest turn for an instant, and he sawthat Maria Allish had flung a stone through the bank window. She had ashawl quite filled with large stones. With the crash came a cheer fromthe crowd around Slevski, who could see the bank from their positionin front of the livery stable. 

A soldier almost bumped into the priest, as he came running down thestreet, gun in hand, followed by half a dozen others. One of themsaluted. "Bad business, Father, " he said. "Will the lieutenant live?"

"I am afraid he will not, " answered the priest. 

"They will surely burn down the company's buildings, " said thesoldier. "God! There they go now. " And the soldier hurried on. 

Later the priest watched the red glow from his window. It reminded himof blood, and he shuddered. 

His old housekeeper called him to his frugal supper. 

"I can not go out much now, " he said to her. "I am a Pole. What coulda Pole do with these Huns who have no sympathy with him, or theItalians whose language he can not speak?"

He wondered if he were a coward. Why should he discuss this with hisservant?

"Slevski, " she said, "makes the people do what he wants. He cursed meon the street this morning. "

"Yes, " said the priest, "he speaks in curses. He has never tried tospeak to God, so he has never learned any other language; and thesemen are his property now. "

"There will be no one at Mass next Sunday, " said the old housekeeper. "Even the women won't come. They think you are in league with thesoldiers. "

"Never mind, Judith, " said the priest, "at heart they are good people, and this will pass away. The women fear God. "

"They fear God sometimes, " said Judith, "but now they fear Slevskialways. "

The priest said nothing in reply. He was here the patient Church whichcould wait and does not grow old. 

After his meal, he again stood at the window to watch the red glow ofthe burning buildings. He heard shots, but he knew that it would beuseless to interfere. He waited for some one to come and call him tothe dying; for he feared people had been hurt, else why the shots?

A knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a woman entered. Thepriest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski'swife. She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. She wasEnglish-speaking and did not come to church. Slevski had married herthree years before in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waitedfor her to speak. 

"Tell me, " she began very rapidly, is it true that no single word of aconfession may ever be revealed by the priest?"

"It is true, " he answered. 

"Even if he were to die for it?" she urged. 

"Even if he were to die. "

The priest's eyes wore a puzzled expression, but she went on:

"May he even not betray it by an action?"

"Not even by an action. "

"Even if he died for it?" Her voice was full of anxiety. 

"Even then. "

"I wish to confess, " she said. "May I do it, here? I will kneelafterward, if necessary, but I can tell it better here--and I must doit quickly. "

"It will take only a minute if we go to the church, " he answered. "Itis irregular to hear your confession outside of the proper place, unless in case of illness. "

"Then let us go, " she said, "and hurry. "

They entered the church, and she knelt on the penitent's side of theconfessional. Later she told all that had happened. 

"What troubles you?" asked the priest. "Have you been to confession oflate?"

"Three years ago, " and she shuddered, "I was to confession. It wasbefore I married him, never since. Yes, yes, I ought to be known toyou. Listen now, for there isn't very much time. " He bent his head andsaid: "I am listening. "

She went on without taking breath. "They are going to murder you. Iheard it, for I was in the secret. I consented to summon you, but Icould not. They charged that you were in the company's pay and workingagainst the men. One of them will come to-night and ask you to go on asick-call. They intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run. I hadto warn you to prepare. I could not see you killed without--without aprayer. It is too cruel. Do what you can for yourself. That's all Ican say. "

"It is very simple, " said the priest. "I need not go. "

"Then they will know that I told you, " she answered breathlessly. Hereyes showed her fright. 

"You are right, " said the priest. "I fear that it would violate theSeal if I refused to go. "

"Yes, " she said, "and he would know at once that I had told, andhe--he suspects me already. He may have followed me, for I refused tocall you. If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to you. Iam not ready to die--and he would kill me. "

"Then do not trouble your mind about it any more. God will take careof me, " said the priest. "Finish your confession. "

In ten minutes she had left. The priest was alone with himself, andhis duty. Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski--and heknew that the woman had been followed. 

He sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wideopen eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred. Then he went backto the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary andfinished his daily office. He laid the book down on the arm of hischair, went to his desk and wrote a few lines, sealed them in anenvelope and left it addressed on the blotter. He was outwardly calm, but his face was gray as ashes. His eyes fell upon the crucifix abovehis desk and he gave way in an instant, dropping on his knees beforeit. The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse andwhispering:

"Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. I am young. Have pityon me. I am not strong enough to be so like You. "

Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he didnot go. Perhaps Slevski had not suspected his wife at all--but hadthe priest not seen him outside the church?

The sweat was over his face, and he walked to the door to get a breathof air. The priest knew there was no longer even a lingering doubt asto what he should do. He went back to the church, and, before thealtar, awaited his call. 

It was not long in coming. The old housekeeper appeared in half anhour to summon him. 

"Kendis is in the house. He lives on the other side of the Run. It isfor his wife, who is sick, that he comes. She is dying. "

The priest bowed and followed the old servant into the house, butKendis had left. 

The priest looked at his few books and lovingly touched some of hisfavorites. His reading chair was near. His eyes filled as he looked atit, with the familiar breviary on its wide arm. The crucified Christgazed down from His cross at him and seemed to smile; but the priest'seyes swam with tears, and a great sob burst from him. He opened thedoor, but lingered on the threshold. When he passed out on the streethis walk was slow, his lips moving, as he went along with the step ofa man very weary and bending beneath the weight of a Great Something. 

The people did not know then that their one dark and muddy street wasthat night a Via Dolorosa; that along it a man who loved them draggeda heavy Cross for their sake; that it ended for him, as had anothersorrowful way ended for his Master, in a cruel Calvary. 

Slevski told the whole story before the trap of the gallows wassprung. 

MAC OF THE ISLAND

When the "Boston Boat" drew near Charlottetown I could see Mac wavingme a welcome to the "Island" from the very last inch of standing spaceupon the dock. When I grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteenminutes later, I knew that my old college chum had changed, onlyoutwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward Island, which the nativescall "the Island, " as if there were no other, was upon him; but thatstamp really made Mac the man he was. The bright red clay was over hisrough boots. Could any clay be redder? It, with his homespun clothes, made the Greek scholar look like a typical farmer. 

We had dinner somewhere in the town before we left for the farm. Itwas a plain, honest dinner. I enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat;but the mealy potatoes and the fresh cod--oh, such potatoes andcod--were the best part of it. I then and there began to like theIsland for more reasons than because it had produced Mac. 

We drove out of town, across the beautiful river and away into thecountry, along red clay roads which were often lined with spruce, andalways with grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the sheepand kept bright green by the moisture. 

"You must enjoy this immensely, you old hermit, " I said to Mac, as thebuggy reached the top of a charming hill, overlooking a picture inwhich the bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue sky andthe bluer waters were blended. 

"Yes, I do, " replied Mac. "This is Tea Hill. You know I think if Iwere in Africa but wanted to write something about home, I could closemy eyes, think of red and green slopes and blue waters and the smellof haymaking, and have the atmosphere in an instant. Just look atthat, " he pointed toward the water. "We call it Pownal Bay. Do you seehow it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce and the fields. Then look off in the distance. That is Hillsboro Bay. You passedthrough it this morning. Do you see the little islands out there? Oneis called St. Peter's and the other is called Governor's. It is afunny thing, but every man, woman and child on the Island knows themby name, yet I could wager a farm that not one in a thousand has everset foot upon them. But it is a grand scene, isn't it, Bruce?"

"Yes, yes, " I replied. "It is a grand scene, Mac, and--" But Macturned to salute a gentleman wearing a silk hat who was passing in abuggy. 

"Good morning, Doctor, " he called. The doctor bowed with what lookedlike gracious condescension. 

Mac turned to me again. "What were you saying, Bruce? Oh, yes, that Imust love it. Why, of course I do. Wasn't I born here? By the way, that chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin. He is head of acollege in Charlottetown. Prince of Wales they call it. It is a veryimportant part of Island life. "

"But I do not think, Mac, " I suggested, "that he was quite asfraternal in his greeting as I might have expected him to be. "

"Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer, " said Mac quickly. "Infact, nobody around here does. You see, Bruce, I am just plain AlecMcKinney, who went to Boston when a young fellow--you know thatBoston, Bruce, is another name for the whole United States, on thisIsland--and who came back a fizzle and a failure to work his father'sfarm. But say, Bruce, " and Mac turned to me very quickly, "whatbrought you here, anyhow? I wager there is a reason for the visit. Now, own up. " He stopped the buggy right in the middle of the road andlooked me in the face. "Surely, " he went on, "you would not havethought of coming to the Island just to gossip about old times. "

"Well, perhaps I would, Mac. In fact, I am glad I came, " I answered, "but you guess well, for this time I was sent. "

Mac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his voice: "You were sent?Good! I am glad. Now, out with it. "

"Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it looks as if I had achance to get you. "

"Get me?" Mac grew grave again. 

"Yes, the old place wants you--for Greek, Mac. We need you badly. OldChalmers is dead. His place is vacant. No one can fill it better thanthe best Greek scholar the college ever produced. Mac, you must come, and I must bring you home. You know the old college is home for you. You can't fool me, Mac. You love it better even than this. " And Iwaved my hand toward the bay. 

Mac's face showed emotion. I expected it would. I had prepared for theinterview, and I knew Mac. I thought I had won; but he changed theconversation abruptly. 

"Look over there, Bruce, " and he pointed with his whip toward thedistance. "Away off on the other side of the Island is where Schurmanof Cornell was born. There are lots of such men who come from aroundhere. Down in that village is the birthplace of your Secretary of theInterior. These people, my people, worship God first and learningnext. They are prouder of producing such men than they are of theIsland itself, and to use student language, that is 'going some. '"

"Yes, I suppose you are right, Mac, " I answered, not quite seeing whyhe had thrown me off, "but they do not seem to know _you_. "

"No, " he answered quickly. "they do not, and I do not want them to. Itwould frighten them off. It would require explanations. Whatdifference if I have six letters after my name? To these people, worshiping what I know rather than what I am, I would not be Alec anymore. "

"But Mac, you will come back now, won't you! The college wants you;you mustn't refuse. "

There was still more emotion in Mac's voice, when he answered: "Bruce, old man, don't tempt me. You can not know, and the faculty can notknow. You say I ought to love all this and I do; but not with the loveI have for the old college, though I was born here. Can you imaginethat old Roman general, whom they took away from his plow to lead anarmy, refusing the offer but keeping the memory of it bright in hisheart ever after? That is my case now, old man. There is nothing inthis world I would rather have had than your message, but I mustrefuse the offer. "

"Now Mac, " I urged, "be reasonable. There is nothing here for you. Scenery won't make up. "

"Don't I know it?" and Mac stopped the buggy again. "Don't I know it?But there is something bigger to me here than the love of the thingsGod made me to do--and he surely made me for Greek, Bruce. Do notthink I am foolish or headstrong, I long for my work. But Bruce, ifyou can not have two things that you love, all you can do is to giveup one and go on loving the other, without having it. That's my fix, Bruce. "

"Yes, Mac, but are you sure you realize what it means to you?" I beganurging, because I knew that I would soon have to play my trump card. "Here you are, a grayhead at thirty-five, without a thing in life butthat farm, and you--heavens, Mac, don't you know that you are one ofthe greatest Greek scholars in the world? Don't you think you owe theworld something? What are you giving? Nothing! You have suppressedeven the knowledge of what you are from the people around you. You geta curt nod from the head of a little college. These people call youAlec, when the whole world wants to call you Master. You are doingwork that any farm hand could do, when you ought to be doing work thatno one can do as well as yourself. Is this a square deal for otherpeople, Mac? Were you not given obligations as well as gifts?"

"Yes, Bruce. " Mac said it sadly. "There's the rub. I was givenobligations as well as gifts, and I am taking you home with me now, instead of threshing this out in the hotel at Charlottetown, because Iwant you and you alone to realize that I am not just a stubbornIslander. And there is home. "

He pointed to a cottage in the field. The cottage was back from theroad nearly a quarter of a mile. Mac opened the gate, led the horsethrough it, closed it again and climbed back into the buggy beside me. There were tears in his brown eyes. 

"Is every one well?" said Mac hesitatingly. "Is everybody well--I meanof the people I knew best back there?" he asked. I knew what he meant. 

"Yes, Mac, _she_ is well, " I said, "and I know she is waiting. "

I had played my "trump card, " but Mac was silent. 

The farm was typical of the Island. The kitchen door opened directlyon the farmyard, and around it, at the moment, were gathered turkeys, ducks, geese and chickens. Mac brought me to a little gate in theflower-garden fence, and, passing through it, we walked along thepathway before the house, so that I could enter through the front doorand be received in the "front room. " Island opposition to affectationor "putting on, " as the people say, forbade calling this "front room"a parlor. No one would think of doing such a thing, unless he wasalready well along the way to "aristocracy. " One dare not violate theunwritten Island law to keep natural and plain. 

I noticed that when Mac spoke to me he used the cultured accents ofthe old college; but before others he spoke as the Islandersspoke--good English, better English than that of the farmers I knew, but flat--the extremity of plainness. I could not analyze that Islandbrogue. It sounded like a mixture of Irish and Scotch, unpleasant onlybecause unsoftened. But you could scarcely call it brogue. It struckme as a sort of protest against affectation; as the Islander's way ofexplaining, without putting it in the sense of the words, that he doesnot want to be taken at a false valuation. The Island brogue is anotice that the user of it meets you man to man. So it reflected Mac, and it reflected his people, unspoiled, unvarnished, true as steel, full of rigid honesty; but undemonstrative, with the wells ofaffection hidden, yet full to the top, of pure, bright, limpid water. 

The "front room" had a hand-woven carpet on the floor, made of amaterial called "drugget. " A few old prints, in glaring colors, wereon the walls. There was a Sacred Heart and an odd-looking picture ofthe dead Christ resting in a tomb, with an altar above and candles allaround it. It was a strange religious conceit. On another wall was acoffin plate, surrounded with waxed flowers and framed, with a littlephotograph of a young man in the center of the flowers. The chairswere plain enough, but covered with a coarse hand-made lace. It wasnot Mac's kind of a room, at all. It made me shudder and wonder howthe scholar who loved his old book-lined college den and knew the oldmasters, could even live near to it. 

Mac came in very soon, leading an old lady, who walked with a cane. She was bent and wrinkled with age. I could see that she was blind. She had a strange-looking old shawl, the like of which I had only avague recollection of seeing as a boy, about her shoulders; and on herhead was a black cap with white ruching around her face. 

"My mother, Bruce, " he said, very simply. 

As I took the old lady's hand, he said to her: "This is my old friend, Professor Bruce, mother. He has come all the way from New York to seeme. I'll leave you together while I go to see sister. Sister has beenbedridden for years, Bruce. "

The old lady was too much embarrassed to speak. Mac smiled at me as heled her to a chair and said: "Bruce does not look like a professor, mother. He just looks like me. "

I could see all the Island respect for learning in the poor old lady'sdeference. Mac left us, and his mother asked if I would not have sometea. I refused the tea, giving as excuse that it was so close to thehour of the evening meal. 

"So, you knew my son at college?" said the mother. 

"I knew him well, Mrs. McKinney. He was my dearest friend. "

The old lady began to cry softly. 

"I am so sorry, " she said, "that he failed in his examinations, andyet, I ought to be glad, I suppose, for it is a comfort to have him. Ellie is a cripple and without Alec what would we do? Of course, ifhe hadn't failed, I couldn't hope to keep him, so it is better, perhaps, as it is. But he was such a smart boy and so anxious to geton. It was a great disappointment to him; and then, of course, none ofus liked to have the neighbors know that the boy was not cut out forsomething better than a farmer. But you must have liked him, when youcame all the way from New York to see him. "

I began to understand. 

That night I thought it all out in my little room, with the fliesbuzzing around me and the four big posts standing guard over a featherbed, into which I sank and disappeared. I was prepared to face Mac inthe morning. 

He had already done a good day's work in the fields, before I was upfor breakfast, so we went into the garden to thresh it out. 

"Mac, " I said severely, "did you tell your mother and sister and thepeople around here that you had failed in your examinations?"

"Well, Bruce, " he said haltingly, "I did not exactly tell them that, but I let them think it. "

"Good Lord!" I thought, "the man who easily led the whole college. "But aloud: "Did you tell them you had no career open to you in NewYork?"

"Well, Bruce, I had to let them think that, too. "

"And you did not tell them, Mac, of the traveling scholarship you won, or the offers that Yale made you?"

"Oh, what was the use, Bruce?" said Mac desperately. "I know it waswrong, but it was the only way I saw. Look here. When I got back home, with all these letters after my name and that traveling scholarship tomy credit, I found sister as I told you she was--you'll see heryourself this morning, poor girl--and mother blind. Brother, the bestbrother that ever lived--it is his picture they have in that hideousframe in the front room--died two months before I graduated. Bruce, there was no one but me. If I had told the truth, they would not havelet me stay. They would have starved first. Why, Bruce, sister neverwore a decent dress or a decent hat, and mother never had that thingthat every old lady on the Island prizes, a silk dress, just becauseshe saved the money for me. I told you that these people worshiplearning after God. " He put his hand to his eyes. "Bruce, I am lonely. I have grown out of the ways of my people. But you wouldn't ask me togrow out of a sense of my duty too?"

"No, I don't want you to come with me, Mac, " I said. "I am going backalone. When you are free, the college is waiting. She can be asgenerous as her son, and, I hope, as patient. "

Mac drove me back over Tea Hill and looked with me again from itssummit over the waters of Pownal Bay. I understood now its appeal tohim. The waters, beautiful as they were, were barriers to his PromisedLand. Would Tea Hill, plain little eminence, be to Mac a new MountNebo, from which he should gaze longingly, but never leave?

Plain Mac of the Island, farmer with hard hands, scholar with a greatmind, son and brother with heart of purest gold! I could not see youthrough the mist of my tears as the boat carried me from this yourIsland of the good and true amongst God's children, but I could thinkonly of you as she passed the lighthouse, and the two tiny islandsthat every one knows but no one visits, and moved down the Strait ofNorthumberland toward the world that is yours by right of your genius, that wants you and is denied. And I did not ask God to bless you, Mac, though my heart was full of prayer, for I knew, oh, so well, thatalready had He given you treasures beyond a selfish world's ken tovalue or to understand.