{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_15444/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_15444","id":"gutenberg_15444","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/15444","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Religion/Spirituality","Category: Short Stories","Christian fiction","Short stories"],"text":"Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Richard J. Shiffer and the\nPG Online Distributed Proofreading Team.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n_The City and the World_\nand Other Stories\n\nBY\n\nFRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY\n\n\nAuthor of\n\n\"The Last Battle of the Gods,\" \"Letters to Jack.\"\n\"The Book of Red and Yellow.\" Etc., Etc.\n\n\nSECOND EDITION\n\n\nEXTENSION PRESS\n223 W. Jackson Boulevard\nCHICAGO\n\n1913\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nThese stories were not written at one time, nor were they intended\nfor publication in book form. For the most part they were\ncontributions to _Extension Magazine_, of which the author is Editor,\nand which is, above all, a missionary publication. Most of them,\ntherefore, were intended primarily to be appeals, as well as stories.\nIn fact, there was not even a remote idea in the author's mind when he\nwrote them that some day they might be introduced to other readers\nthan those reached by the magazine itself. In fact, he might almost\nsay that the real object of most of the stories was to present a\nCatholic missionary appeal in a new way. Apparently the stories\nsucceeded in doing that, and a few of them were made up separately in\nbooklets and used for the propaganda work of The Catholic Church\nExtension Society. Then came a demand for the collection, so the\nwriter consented to allow the stories to appear in book form; hoping\nthat, thus gathered together, his little appeals for what he considers\nthe greatest cause in the world may win a few new friends to the ideas\nwhich gave them life and name.\n\nFRANCIS CLEMENT KELLEY.\n\nCHICAGO, ILLINOIS, July 30, 1913.\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \"Father Ramoni suddenly felt his joy congealing into a\ncold fear.\"]\n\n\n\n\n                       CONTENTS\n\n        TITLES                                Page\n\nThe City and the World                          1\nThe Flaming Cross                              20\nThe Vicar-General                              44\nThe Resurrection of Alta                       53\nThe Man with a Dead Soul                       67\nThe Autobiography of a Dollar                  74\nLe Braillard de la Magdeleine                  82\nThe Legend of Deschamps                        84\nThe Thousand Dollar Note                       89\nThe Occasion                                  109\nThe Yankee Tramp                              119\nHow Father Tom Connolly Began to Be a Saint   127\nThe Unbroken Seal                             136\nMac of the Island                             144\n\n\n\n\nTHE CITY AND THE WORLD\n\n\nFather Denfili, old and blind, telling his beads in the corner of the\ncloister garden, sighed. Father Tomasso, who had brought him from his\nconfessional in the great church to the bench where day after day he\nkept his sightless vigil over the pond of the goldfish, turned back at\nthe sound, then, seeing the peace of Father Denfili's face, thought he\nmust have fancied the sigh. For sadness came alien to the little\ngarden of the Community of San Ambrogio on Via Paoli, a lustrous gem\nof a little garden under its square of Roman sky. The dripping of the\ntiny fountain, tinkling like a bit of familiar music, and the swelling\ntones of the organ, drifting over the flowers that clustered beneath\nthe statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, so merged their murmurings into the\npeacefulness of San Ambrogio, that Father Tomasso, just from the\nnovitiate, felt intensely that he knew he must have dreamed Father\nDenfili's sigh. For what could trouble the old man here in San\nAmbrogio on this, the greatest day of the Community?\n\nFor to-day Father Ramoni had returned to Rome. Even as Father Tomasso\npassed the fountain a group of Fathers and novices were gathering\naround one of the younger priests, who still wore his fereoula and\nwide-brimmed hat, just as he had entered from Via Paoli. The\nnewcomer's eyes traveled joyously over his breathless audience,\ncalling Father Tomasso to join in hearing his news.\n\n\"Yes, it is true,\" he was saying. \"I have just come from the audience.\nFather General and Father Ramoni stopped to call at the Secretariate\nof State, but I came straight home to tell you. His Holiness was most\nkind, and Father Ramoni was not a mite abashed, even in the presence\nof the Pope. When he knelt down the Holy Father raised him up and gave\nhim a seat. 'Tell me all about your wonderful people and your\nwonderful work,' he said. And Father Ramoni told him of the thousands\nhe had converted and how easy it was, with the blessing of God, to do\nso much. The Holy Father asked him every manner of question. He was\nfull of enthusiasm for the great things our Father Ramoni has done. He\nis the greatest man in Rome to-day, is Ramoni. He will be honored by\nthe Holy See. The Pope showed it plainly. This is a red-letter day for\nour Community.\" The little priest paused for breath, then hastened on.\n\"Rome knows that our Father Ramoni has come back,\" he cried, \"and Rome\nhas not forgotten ten years ago.\"\n\n\"Was it ten years that Father Ramoni passed in South America?\" a tall\nnovice asked Father Tomasso.\n\n\"Ten years,\" said Father Tomasso. \"He was the great preacher of Rome\nwhen the old General\"--he nodded toward the cloister corner where\nFather Denfili prayed--\"sent him away from Rome. No one knew why. His\nfame was at its height. Men and women of all the city crowded the\nchurch to listen to him, and he was but thirty-four years old. But\nFather Denfili sent him away to Marqua, commanding the Superior of our\nOrder out there to send him to those far-off mountain people of whom\nthe papers were telling at that time. I did not know Father Romani\nwell. I was a novice at the time. But I knew that he did not want to\ngo from Rome; though, being a good religious, he obeyed. Now, see what\nhas happened. He has converted over one-third of that people, and the\nrest are only waiting for missionaries.\"\n\n\"And the work is all Father Ramoni's?\" the novice asked.\n\n\"All.\" Father Tomasso drew him a little farther from the group that\nstill listened to the little priest who had come from the Vatican.\n\"Father Ramoni found that the people had many Christian traditions and\nwere almost white; but it was he who instilled the Faith in their\nhearts. There must be thirty of our Fathers in Marqua now,\" he\ncontinued proudly, \"and sooner or later, all novices will have to go\nout there. Father Ramoni has made a splendid Prefect-Apostolic. No\nwonder they have summoned him to Rome for consultation. I have\nheard\"--he lowered his voice as he glanced over his shoulder to where\nFather Denfili sat on the bench by the pond--\"that it is certain that\nMarqua is to be made a Province, with an archbishop and two bishops.\nThere is a seminary in Marqua, even now, and they are training some of\nthe natives to be catechists. I tell you, Brother Luigi, missionary\nhistory has never chronicled such wonders as our Father Ramoni has\nwrought.\"\n\nFrom behind them came the rising voice of the little priest, bubbling\ninto laughter. \"And as I came through the Pincio all that I heard was\nhis name. I had to wait for a duchessa's carriage to pass. She was\ntelling an American woman of the times when Father Ramoni had preached\nat San Carlo. 'His words would convert a Hindu,' she was saying. And\nthe Marchesi di San Quevo leaned from his horse to tell me that he had\nheard that Father Ramoni will be one of the Cardinals of the next\nConsistory. Is it not wonderful?\"\n\nThe murmur of their responses went across the garden to old Father\nDenfili. Father Tomasso, crossing the path with the novice, suddenly\nsaw a strange look of pain on the old priest's face, and started\ntoward him just as the gate to the cloister garden swung back,\nrevealing a picture that held him waiting. Four men--a great Roman\nprelate, the General of San Ambrogio, Father Ramoni and Father Pietro,\nRamoni's secretary--were coming into the garden. Of the four Father\nRamoni stood out in the center of the group as vividly as if a\nsearchlight were playing on his magnificent bigness. His deep black\neyes, set in a face whose strength had been emphasized by its exposure\nto sun and wind, gleamed joyous with his mood. His mouth, large,\nexpressive, the plastic mouth of the orator, was curving into a smile\nas he gave heed to the speech of the prelate beside him. Once he shook\nhis head as the great man, oblivious of their coming before a crowd of\nintent watchers, continued the words he had been saying on Via Paoli.\n\n\"And the Holy See is about to make your Marqua into a Province. Is it\nnot wonderful, Father Ramoni, that you will go back with that gift to\nthe people you converted? And yet to me it is more wonderful that you\nwish to go back. Why do you not stay here? You, a Roman, would\nadvance.\"\n\n\"Not now, Monsignore,\" the missionary answered quickly. They were\npassing the group near the fountain, going toward the bench where\nFather Denfili sat. Ramoni's secretary, a thin, serious-visaged priest\nof about the same age as his Superior, with bald head and timid,\nshrinking eyes, took with the greatest deference the cloak and hat\nFather Ramoni handed to him. Then he fell back of the old General.\nThe prelate answered Ramoni. \"But you are right, of course,\" he\nadmitted. \"It is best that you return. The Church needs you there now.\nBut later on--_chi lo sa_? You are to preach Sunday afternoon at San\nCarlo? I shall be there to hear you. So will all Rome, I suppose. Ah,\nyou do well here! '_Filius urbis et orbis_--son of the city and the\nworld.' It's a great title, Ramoni!\"\n\nThey had come in front of the bench where Father Denfili told his\nbeads. The prelate turned to the old General of San Ambrogio with\ndeference. \"Is it not so, Father?\" he asked. But Father Denfili raised\nhis sightless eyes as if he sought to focus them upon the group before\nhim. Father Ramoni, laughingly dissenting, suddenly felt his joy\ncongealing into a cold fear that bound his heart. He turned away\nangrily, then recovered himself in time. Father Denfili was no longer\non the bench beside the pond. He was groping his way back to the\nchapel.\n\nIt was a month before the Consistory met to nominate the new hierarchy\nfor Marqua. It had been expected that the first meeting would end in\ndecisive action and that, immediately afterward, the great missionary\nof the Community of San Ambrogio would return with increased authority\nand dignity to his charge. But something--one of those mysterious\n\"somethings\" peculiar to Rome--had happened, and the nominations were\npostponed.\n\nIn the month that Father Ramoni remained in Rome he had tasted the\nfruits of his old popular success. On his first Sunday at home he\npreached in San Carlo as well as ever--better than ever. And the awed\ncrowd he looked down on at the end of his sermon took away from the\nchurch the tidings of his greater power. From that time nearly every\nmoment was taken by the demands of people of position and authority,\nwho wished to make the most of him before he went back to Marqua. He\nscarcely saw his brethren at all, except after his Mass, when he went\nto the refectory for his morning coffee. He had no time to loiter in\nthe garden, and the story of the conversion of the people of Marqua\nwas left to the quiet Fr. Pietro, who told the splendid tales of his\nSuperior's great work, till Father Tomasso and Brother Luigi prayed to\nbe given the opportunity to be Ramoni's servants in the far-away land\nof the western world. But, if Ramoni was but seldom in the cloister,\nhe did not avoid Father Denfili. The old blind priest seemed to meet\nhim everywhere, in the afternoons on the Pincio, in the churches where\nhe preached, in the subdued crowds at ecclesiastical assemblies. Once\nRamoni caught a glimpse of his face lifted toward him during a\nconference; and a remembrance of that old look in the cloister garden\ngave him the sensation of belief that the old General could see, even\nthough Ramoni himself, was the only one whom he saw.\n\nOn the day the letter from the Vatican came, Father Ramoni, detained\nin the cloister by the expected visit of a prelate who had expressed\nhis desire to meet the missionary of Marqua, passed Father Denfili on\nhis way to the reception-room. While Father Ramoni, summoning his\nsecretary to bring some photographs for better explanation of the\nSouth American missions, went on his way, the blind man groped along\nthe wall till he reached the General's office. He had come to the door\nwhen he felt that undercurrent of anxiety which showed itself on the\nwhite faces of the General and his assistant, who stood gazing mutely\nat the letter the former held. He heard the General call Father\nTomasso. \"Take this to Father Pietro, my son,\" he said. Then he\nlistened to the younger priest's retreating footsteps.\n\nFather Tomasso, frightened by the unwonted strangeness of the\nGeneral's tone, carried the atmosphere of tense and troubled\nexcitement with him when he entered the room the prelate was just\nleaving. Father Pietro glanced up at him from the table where he was\nreturning to their case the photographs of Marqua. Tomasso laid the\nletter before him and left the room just as Father Ramoni, bidding his\nvisitor a gay good-bye, turned back.\n\n[Illustration: \"I can't take it,\" he was sobbing, \"it's a mistake, a\nterrible mistake.\"]\n\nFather Pietro was taking the letter from its large square envelope. He\nread it with puzzled wonder rising to his eyes. Before he came to its\nend he was on his feet.\n\n\"No! No!\" he cried. \"It is impossible. It is a mistake.\"\n\nFather Ramoni turned quickly. The man who had been his faithful\nservant for ten years in Marqua was very dear to him. \"What is a\nmistake, Pietro?\" he asked, coming to the table.\n\n\"The Consistory,\" Father Pietro stammered, \"the Consistory has made a\nmistake. They have done an impossible thing. They have mixed our\nnames. This letter to the General--this letter--\" he pointed to the\ndocument on the table \"--says that I have been made Archbishop of\nMarqua.\"\n\nRamoni took the letter. As he read it he knew what Pietro had not\nknown. The news was genuine. The name signed at the letter's end\nguaranteed that. Ramoni caught the edge of the table. The pain of the\nblow gripped him relentlessly and he knew that it was a pain that\nwould stay. He had been passed over, ignored, set down for Pietro, who\nsat weeping beside the table, his head buried in his hands.\n\n\"I can't take it,\" he was sobbing; \"I am not able. It's a mistake, a\nterrible mistake.\"\n\nRamoni put his hand on the other man's head. \"It is true, Pietro,\" he\nsaid. \"You are Archbishop of Marqua. May God bless you!\"\n\nBut he could say no more. Pietro was still weeping when Ramoni went\naway, crossing the cloister on his way to his cell, where, with the\ndoor closed behind him, he fought the battle of his soul.\n\n\nII.\n\nIn the beginning Ramoni could not think. He sat looking dully at the\nsoftened tones of the wall, trying to evolve some order of thought\nfrom the chaos into which the shock of his disappointment had plunged\nhis mind. It was late in the night before the situation began to\noutline itself dimly.\n\nHis first thought was, curiously enough, not of himself directly, but\nof the people out in Marqua who were anxiously looking for his return\nas their leader, confident of his appointment to the new\nArchbishopric. He could not face them as the servant of another man.\nFrom the crowd afar his thoughts traveled back to the crowd on the\nPincio--the crowd that welcomed him as the great missionary. He would\ngo no more to the Pincio, for now they would point him out with that\ncynical amusement of the Romans as the man who had been shelved for\nhis servant. He resented the fate that had uprooted him from Rome ten\nyears before, sending him to Marqua. He resented the people he had\nconverted, Pietro, the Consistory--everything. For that black and\nbitter night the Church, which he had loved and reverenced, looked to\nhim like the root of all injustice. The more he thought of the slight\nthat had been put upon him, the worse it became, till the thought\narose in him that he would leave the Community, leave Rome, leave it\nall. After long hours, anger had full sway in the heart of Father\nRamoni.\n\nAt midnight he heard the striking of the city's clocks through the\nwindows, the lattices of which he had forgotten to close. The sound of\nthe city brought back to him the words of the great prelate who had\nreturned with him to San Ambrogio from his first audience with the\nHoly Father--\"_Filius urbis et orbis_.\" How bitterly the city had\ntreated him!\n\nA knock sounded at his door. He walked to it and flung it open. His\nanger had come to the overflowing of speech. At first he saw only a\nhand at the door-casing, groping with a blind man's uncertainty. Then\nhe saw the old General.\n\nIn the soul of Ramoni rose an awful revulsion against the old man.\nInstantly, with a memory of that first day in the cloister garden, of\nthose following days that gave him the unexpected, uncanny glimpses of\nthe priest, he centered all his bitterness upon Denfili. So fearful\nwas his anger as he held it back with the rein of years of\nself-control, that he wondered to see Father Denfili smiling.\n\n\"May I enter, my son?\" he asked.\n\n\"You may enter.\"\n\nThe old man groped his way to a chair. Ramoni watched him with\nglowering rage. When Father Denfili turned his sightless eyes upon him\nhe did not flinch.\n\n\"You are disappointed, my son?\" the old man asked with a gentleness\nthat Ramoni could not apprehend, \"and you can not sleep?\"\n\nRamoni's anger swept the question aside. \"Have you come here, Father\nDenfili,\" he cried, \"to find out how well you have finished the\npersecution you began ten years ago? If you have, you may be quite\nconsoled. It is finished to-night.\" His anger, rushing over the gates,\nbeat down upon the old man, who sat wordless before its flood. It was\na passionate story Ramoni told, a story of years in the novitiate when\nthe old man had ever repressed him, a story of checks that had been\nput upon him as a preacher, of his banishment from Rome, and now of\nthis crowning humiliation. Furiously Ramoni told of them all while the\nold man sat, letting the torrent wear itself out on the rocks of\npatience. Then, after Ramoni had been silent long moments, he spoke.\n\n\"You did not pray, my son?\"\n\n\"Pray?\" Ramoni's laughter rasped. \"How can I pray? My life is ruined.\nI am ashamed even to meet my brethren in the chapel.\"\n\n\"And yet, it is God one meets in the chapel,\" the old man said. \"God,\nand God alone; even if there be a thousand present.\"\n\n\"God?\" flung back the missionary. \"What has He done to me? Do you\nthink I can thank Him for this? Yet I am a fool to ask you, for it was\nnot God who did it--it was you! You interfered with His work. I know\nit.\"\n\n\"I hope, my son, that it was God who did it. If He did, then it is\nright for you. As for me, perhaps I am somewhat responsible. I was\nconsulted, and I advised Pietro.\"\n\n\"Don't call me 'my son,'\" cried the other.\n\n\"Is it as bad as that with you?\" There was only compassion in the old\nvoice. \"Yet must I say it--my son. With even more reason than ever\nbefore I must say it to you to-night.\"\n\nThe old man's thin hands were groping about his girdle to find the\nbeads that hung down from it. He pulled them up to him and laid the\nstring across his knees; but the crucifix that he could not see he\nkept tightly clasped in his hand. His poor, dull, pathetic eyes were\nturned to Ramoni who felt again that strange impression that he could\nsee, as they fixed on his face and stared straight at him without a\nmovement of their lashes. And Ramoni knew how it was that a man may be\ngiven a finer vision than that of earth, for Father Denfili was\nlooking where only a saint could look, deep down into the soul of\nanother.\n\n\"Son of the city and the world,\" he said. \"I heard Monsignore call you\nthat, and he was right. A son of the city and of the world you are;\nbut alas! less of the city than you know, and more of the world than\nyou have realized. My son, I am a very old man. Perhaps I have not\nlong to live; and so it is that I may tell you why I have come to you\nto-night.\" Ramoni started to speak, but the other put out his hand. \"I\nreceived you, a little boy, into this Community. No one knows you\nbetter than I do. I saw in you before any one else the gifts that God\nhad given you for some great purpose. I saw them budding. I knew\nbefore any one else knew that some day you would do a great thing,\nthough I did not know what it was that you would do. I was a man with\nlittle, but I could admire the man who had much. I had no gifts to lay\nbefore Him, yet I, too, wanted to do a great work. I wanted to make\n_you_ my great work. That was my hope. You are the Apostle of Marqua.\nI am the Apostle of Ramoni. For that I have lived, always in the fear\nthat I would be cheated of my reward.\"\n\nRamoni turned to him. \"Your reward? I do not understand.\"\n\n\"My reward,\" the old man repeated. \"I watched over you, I instructed\nyou, I prayed for you, I loved you. I tried to teach you by checking\nyou, the way to govern yourself. I tried to make a channel in your\nsoul that your great genius might not burst its bonds. I knew that\nthere was conflict ever within you between your duty to God and what\nthe world had to offer you--the old, old conflict between the city\nand the world. I always feared it. All unknown to you I watched the\nfight, and I saw that the world was winning. Then, my son, I sent you\nto Marqua.\"\n\nThe old man paused, and his trembling hand wiped away the tears that\nstreamed down his face. Ramoni did not move. \"I am afraid, my son,\"\nthe voice came again, \"that you never knew the city--well called the\nEternal--where with all the evil the world has put within its walls\nthe good still shines always. This, my son, is the city of the soul,\nand you were born in it. It lives only for souls. It has no other\nright to existence at all. There is only one royalty that may live in\nRome. We, who are of the true city, know that.\n\n\"And you, too, might have been of the city. The power of saving\nthousands was given to you. I prayed only for the power of saving one.\nI had to send you away, for you were not a Philip Neri. Only a saint\nmay live to be praised and save himself--in Rome.\n\n\"When you went away, my son, you went away with a sacrifice as your\nmerit, your salvation. Of that sacrifice the Church in Marqua was\nborn. It will grow on another sacrifice. Ask your heart if you could\nmake it? Alas, you can not! Then it will have to grow on Pietro's\npain.\n\n\"I have not seen you, for I am blind, but I have heard you. You want\nto go back an Archbishop to finish what you say is 'your work.' You\nthink that your people are waiting. You want to bring the splendor of\nthe city to the world. My son, the work is not yours. The people are\nnot yours. The city, the true city, does not know you, for you have\nforgotten the spirit of sacrifice. You went out to the world an\napostle, and you came back to the city a conqueror, but no longer an\napostle. Can't you see that God does not need conquerors?\"\n\nThe old priest pressed the crucifix tightly against his breast. \"What\nwould you take back to Marqua?\" he demanded. \"Nothing but your purple\nand your eloquence. How could you, who have forgotten to pray in the\nmidst of affliction, teach your people how to pray in the midst of\ntheir sorrows? Marqua does not need you, for Marqua needs the man you\nmight have been, but which you are not. The city does not need you,\nfor the city needs no man; but it is you who need the city, that you\nmay learn again the lesson that once made you the missionary of a\npeople.\"\n\nFaintly, through the silence that fell the deeper as the old man's\nwords died away, there came the sound of footsteps pacing in another\nroom. Once more the old man took up his speech.\n\n\"They are Pietro's steps,\" he said. \"All night long I have heard you\nboth. He has been sobbing under the burden he believes he is unworthy\nto bear, while you have been raging that you were not permitted to\nbear it. Pietro was only your servant. He would be your servant again\nif he could. He loves you. I, too, love you. Perhaps I was selfish in\nloving you, but I wanted for God your soul and the souls you were\nleading to Him.\"\n\nThe old man arose. He put out his hand to grope his way back to the\ndoor. It touched Ramoni, sitting rigid. He did not stir. The hand\nreached over him, caught the lintel of the door and guided the blind\nman to the hall. Then Ramoni stood up. Without a word he followed the\nother. When he had overtaken him he laid his hand gently on the blind\nman's arm and led him back to his cell.\n\nWhen he came back the door of the chapel was open. Ramoni, going\nwithin, found Pietro there, prostrate at the foot of the altar. Ramoni\nknelt at the door, his eyes brimming with tears. He did not pray. He\nonly gazed upon the far-off tabernacle. And while he knelt the Great\nPlan unfolded itself to him. He looked back on Marqua as a man who has\ntraveled up the hills looks down on the valleys. And, looking back, he\ncould see that Pietro's had been the labor that had won Marqua. There\ncame back to him all the memories of his servant's love of souls, his\nceaseless teaching, his long journeys to distant villages, his zeal,\nhis solicitude to save his superior for the more serious work of\npreaching. Pietro had been jealous of the slightest infringement on\nhis right to suffer. Pietro had been the apostle. Before God the\nconquest of Marqua had been Pietro's first, since he it was who had\ntoiled and claimed no reward.\n\nA great peace suddenly mantled the troubled soul of Father Ramoni, and\nwith it a great love for the old General whose hand had struck him. He\nthought of the painting hanging near where he knelt--\"Moses Striking\nthe Rock.\" The features of Father Denfili merged into the features of\nthe Law Giver, and Father Ramoni knew himself for the rock, barren and\nunprofitable. He fell on his face, and then his prayer came:\n\n\"Christ, humble and meek, soften me, and if there be aught of living\nwater within, let me give one drop for thirsty souls yet ere I am\ncalled.\"\n\nHe could utter no other prayer.\n\nMorning found both master and servant, now servant and master, before\nthe altar where both were servants.\n\n\nIII.\n\nIt was fifteen years later when the brethren of the little Community\nof San Ambrogio gathered in their chapel to sing the requiem over\ntheir founder and first General, Father Denfili, who died, old and\nblind, after twenty years of retirement into obscurity. But there\nwere more than his brethren there. For all those years he had\noccupied, day after day, the solitude of a little confessional in the\nchapel. He had had his penitents there, and, in a general way, the\nbrethren of San Ambrogio knew that there were among them many\ndistinguished ones; but they were not prepared for the revelation that\nhis obsequies gave them. Cardinals, Roman nobles, soldiers, prelates,\npriests and citizens crowded into the little chapel. They were those\nwho had knelt week after week at the feet of the saint.\n\nBut there was one penitent, greater than them all in dignity and\nsanctity, who could not come. The tears blinded him that morning when\nhe said Mass in his own chapel at the Vatican for the soul of Father\nDenfili. At the hour of the requiem he looked longingly toward Via\nPaoli, where his old spiritual father was lying dead before the altar\nof the cloister chapel; and the tears came again into eyes that needed\nall their vision to gaze far out, from his watch-tower, on the City\nand the World.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLAMING CROSS\n\nI.\n\n\nIt was already midnight when Orville, Thornton and Callovan arose from\na table of the club dining-room and came down in the elevator for\ntheir hats and coats. They had spent an evening together, delightful\nto all three. This dinner and chat had become an annual affair, to\ngive the old chums of St. Wilbur's a chance to live over college days,\nand keep a fine friendship bright and lasting. Not one of them was old\nenough to feel much change from the spirit of youth. St. Wilbur's was\na fresh memory and a pleasant one; and no friends of business or\nsociety had grown half so precious for any one of these three men as\nwere the other two, whom the old college had introduced and had bound\nto him.\n\nThe difference in the appearance of the friends was very marked.\nThornton had kept his promise of growing up as he had started: short,\nfat and jovial. Baldness was beginning to show at thirty-five. His\nstubby mustache was as unmanageable as the masters of St. Wilbur's had\nfound its owner to be. He had never affected anything, for he had\nalways been openly whatever he allowed himself to drift into. Neither\nof his friends liked many of his actions, nor the stories told of\nhim; but they liked him personally and were inclined to be silently\nsorry for him, but not to sit in judgment upon him. Both Orville and\nCallovan waited and hoped for \"old Thornton\"; but the wait had been\nlong and the hope very much deferred.\n\nCallovan was frankly Irish. The curly black hair of the Milesian spoke\nfor him as clearly as the blue-gray eye. He shaved clean and he looked\nclean. An ancestry of hard workers left limbs that lifted him to\nalmost six feet of strong manhood. His skin was ruddy and fresh. Two\nyears younger than Thornton, he yet looked younger by five. And\nCallovan, like Thornton, was inwardly what the outward signs promised.\n\nOrville was tall and straight. The ghost of a black mustache was on\nhis lip. His hair was scanty, and was parted carefully. His dress\nshowed taste, but not fastidiousness. He was handsome, well groomed\nand particular, without obtrusiveness in any one of the points. He was\njust a little taller than Callovan; but he was grayer and a great deal\nmore thoughtful. He was a hard book to read, even for an intimate; but\nthe print was large, if the text was puzzling. He looked to be \"in\"\nthe world, but who could say if he were \"of\" it?\n\nAll three of these friends were very rich. Thornton had made his money\nwithin five years--a lucky mining strike, a quick sale, a move to the\ncity, speculation, politics were mixed up in a sort of rapid-fire\nstory that the other friends never cared to hear the details of.\nCallovan inherited his wealth from his hard-fisted old father, who had\ndied but a year before. Orville was the richest of the three. He had\nalways been rich. His father had died a month before he was born. His\nmother paid for her only child with her life. Orville's guardian had,\nas soon as possible, placed him in St. Wilbur's Preparatory School and\nthen in the College; but he was a careful and wise man, this guardian,\nso, though plenty of money was allowed him, yet the college\nauthorities had charge of it. They doled it out to the growing boy and\nyouth in amounts that could neither spoil nor starve him. It was good\nfor Orville that the guardian had been thus wise and the college\nauthorities thus prudent. He himself was generous and kind-hearted; by\nnature a spendthrift, but by training just a bit of a miser. He had\nlearned a little about values during these school and college days.\n\n\"Your car is not here yet, Mr. Orville,\" said the doorman, when the\nthree moved to leave the club.\n\n\"Very unlike your careful Michael,\" remarked Callovan.\n\nOrville came at once to the defense of his exemplary chauffeur. \"I\ngave him permission to go to St. Mary's to-night for confession,\" he\nsaid. \"Michael will be here in a moment. He goes to confession every\nSaturday night and is a weekly communicant. I can stand a little\ntardiness once a week for the sake of having a man like Michael\naround.\"\n\n\"Good boy is Michael,\" put in Thornton. \"I wish I could get just a\nsmall dose of his piety. Candidly, I am awfully lonesome sometimes\nwithout a little of it.\n\nA page came running up. \"Telephone for you, Mr. Orville,\" he said; and\nat almost the same moment the doorman called out: \"Your car is here\nnow, sir.\" Orville went to the telephone booth, but returned in a\nmoment.\n\n\"Lucky for us that we waited,\" he said. \"It was Marion who called. She\nis at the Congress, and she wants me to take her home. She came\ndown-town with her brother to meet the Dixes from Omaha, and that\nworthless pup has gone off and left her. She knew that I was here\nto-night, and 'phoned, hoping to catch me. We will pass around by the\nhotel and take her back with us.\"\n\nWhen the friends came out, Michael was standing with his hand on the\nknob of the big limousine's door. \"I am sorry if I made you wait,\nsir,\" he said. \"I had a fainting spell in the church and could not get\naway sooner. A doctor said it was a little heart attack; but I am all\nright now.\"\n\nOrville answered kindly. \"I am sorry you were ill, Michael, but we are\nglad enough that you were late. That ill wind for you blew good to us,\nfor we have Miss Fayall home with us. If you had been on time we\nwould have missed her. Go around to the Congress first.\"\n\nThe car glided down Michigan avenue to the hotel, where Marion was\nalready waiting in the ladies' lobby. She looked just what she was,\nthe pampered and petted daughter of a rich man. Tonight her cheeks\nwere flushed and her hand was very unsteady. Orville noticed both when\nshe entered the car. He was startled, for Marion was his fiancee. He\nknew that she was usually full of life and spirit; but this midnight\ngaiety worried him, and all the more that he loved the girl sincerely.\n\nMarion talked fast and furiously, railing continually at her brother;\nbut she averted her face from Orville as much as possible and spoke to\nThornton. Orville said nothing after he had greeted her.\n\nThe car sped on, passed the club again and down toward the bridge at\nthe foot of the avenue. Marion was scolding at Thornton as they\napproached the bridge at a good rate of speed. Orville was staring\nstraight ahead, so only he saw Michael's hand make a quick movement\ntoward the controller, and another movement, at the same time, as if\nhis foot were trying to press on the brake; but both movements seemed\nto fall short and Michael's head dropped on his breast. Alarmed,\nOrville looked up. He had a swift glimpse of a flashing red light. A\nchain snapped like a pistol shot. He heard an oath from Thornton, and\na scream from Marion. Then, in an instant, he felt the great weight\nfalling, and a flood of cold water poured through the open window of\nthe car. He tried to open the door, but the weight of water against it\nmade this impossible. The car filled and the door moved. He was pushed\nout. He thought of saving Marion; but all was dark around him. He\ntried to call, but the water choked him. He could only think a prayer,\nbefore he seemed to be falling asleep. Everything was fading away\nbefore him, in a strange feeling of dreamy satisfaction; so only\nvaguely did he realize the tragedy that had fallen upon him.\n\n\nII.\n\nWhen light and vision came back to Orville, he was standing up and\nvaguely wondering why. Before him he saw Thornton and Marion, side by\nside. Near them was Callovan with Michael. All were changed; but\nOrville could not understand just in what the change consisted. In\nThornton and Marion the change was not good to look at, and Orville\nsomehow felt that it was becoming more marked as he gazed. Michael was\nalmost transformed, and was looking at Orville with a smile on his\nface. Callovan was smiling also, so Orville naturally smiled back at\nthem. Thornton was frowning, and Marion looked horrible in her\nterror. Orville could understand nothing of it. He glanced about him\nand saw thousands of men and women, all smiling or frowning, like his\ncompanions. Several seemed to be about to begin a journey and were\nmoving away from the groups, most of them alone. Some had burdens\nstrapped to their shoulders and bent under them as they walked. Those\nwho were not departing were preparing for departure; but Orville could\nsee no guides about. All the travelers appeared to understand where\nthey were to go.\n\nOrville watched the groups divide again and again, wondering still,\nnot knowing the reason for the division. Some took a road that led\nupward to a mountain. It was a rough, hard and tiresome road. Orville\ncould see men and women far above on that road, dragging themselves\nalong painfully. Another road led down into a valley; but Orville\ncould not see deep into that valley, because of a haze which hung over\nit. He looked long at the road before he noticed letters on a rock\nwhich rose up like a gateway to it, and he vaguely resolved that later\nhe would go over and read them. But first he wanted to ask questions.\n\n\"Michael, what does all this mean?\" Orville said; all the time\nmarveling that it was to his servant he turned for information.\n\nMichael still smiled, and answered: \"It means, sir, that we are\ndead.\"\n\nOrville was astonished that he felt neither shocked nor startled.\n\"Dead? I do not quite understand, Michael. You are not joking?\"\n\n\"No, sir. It happened quickly. We went over the bridge a minute ago.\nOur bodies are in the river now, but we are here.\"\n\n\"Where?\" asked Orville.\n\nMichael answered, \"That I do not know, sir, except that we are in The\nLand of the Dead.\"\n\n\"But you seem to know a great deal, Michael,\" said Orville.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Michael; \"I died a minute before you, sir, so I came\nearlier. I was dead on my seat when we struck the chain and broke it.\nOne learns much in a minute here. But tell me, sir, can you see\nanything at the top of that mountain?\"\n\nOrville looked up and saw a bright light before him on the very summit\nand seemingly at the end of the road. As he gazed it took the form of\na Flaming Cross.\n\n\"I see a Cross on fire, Michael,\" he said. Michael answered simply:\n\"Thank God.\"\n\n\"I can see a Flaming Cross, too,\" said Callovan, speaking for the\nfirst time. \"I can see it, and what is more, I am going up to it; let\nus not delay an instant\"; and Callovan began to gird his\nstrange-looking garment about him for the climb.\n\nThen Orville knew that he himself was drawn toward that Flaming Cross.\nThere was a something urging him on. His whole being was filled with\na desire to get to that goal, and he, too, prepared quickly for the\nascent.\n\n\"Wait a moment, sir,\" said Michael. \"Do the others see nothing on the\nmountain?\"\n\nThornton and Marion, still frowning, were looking down into the haze\nof the valley. They were paying no attention to their friends.\n\n\"Come, let us go,\" said Thornton to the girl, as he pointed to the\nroad which led down into the valley.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Michael, \"not there. Look up at the mountain. What do\nyou see?\"\n\nBoth Marion and Thornton glanced upward. \"I see nothing,\" said Marion.\n\n\"I see a Cross, but it is black and repellant-looking,\" said Thornton.\n\"Come, Marion, let us go at once.\"\n\nOrville, alarmed, called out: \"Marion, you will surely come with me.\"\n\nThe frown on her face changed to a look of awful sadness, but she put\nher hand into Thornton's while saying to Orville: \"I can not go there\nwith you--not upward. I must enter the valley with him.\" She moved\naway, her hand still in Thornton's. Orville watched them go, only\nwondering why he had no regrets.\n\n\"Michael,\" he said, \"I loved her on earth. Why am I unmoved to see her\nleave me?\"\n\n[Illustration: \"But when their feet touched the road, they turned and\nlooked their terror.\"]\n\nBut Michael answered, \"It is not strange in The Land of the Dead.\nThere are stranger partings here; but all of them are like\nyours--tearless for those who see the Cross.\"\n\nThornton and Marion by this time had entered the valley road and were\non the other side of the rock gateway. But when their feet touched the\nroad they turned and looked their terror. Suddenly they recoiled and\nstruck viciously at each other. Then they parted. With the wide road\nbetween them they went down into the valley and the haze together.\n\nOrville read the words on the rock gateway, for now they stood out so\nthat he could see plainly, and they were: \"THE ROAD WITHOUT ENDING.\"\n\"Michael,\" he said, \"what does it mean?\"\n\nMichael answered, \"She could not see the Cross here, who would not see\nit on earth. It repelled him, who so often had repelled it in life.\"\n\n\nIII.\n\nNeither Orville nor Callovan was at all moved by the tragedy each had\nwitnessed. Orville's love for Marion was as if it had never existed.\nThe friendship of both for Thornton did not in the slightest assert\nitself. They felt moved to sorrow, but the overpowering sense of\nanother feeling--a feeling of victory for some Great Friend or\nCause--left the vague sorrow forgotten in an instant. Both men knew\nthat Thornton and Marion had passed out of their ken forever, and in\nthe future would be to them as if they had not been. All three made\nhaste to go toward the road which led up to the Flaming Cross. Then\nupon Orville's shoulders he felt a heavy burden, but still heavier was\none which was bending Callovan down. Michael alone stood straight,\nwithout a weight upon him.\n\n\"It will be hard to climb to the Cross with these burdens, Michael,\"\nsaid Orville.\n\n\"Yes, sir, it will,\" said Michael, \"but you must carry them. You\nbrought them here. They are the burdens of your wealth. They will\nhamper you; but you saw the Cross, and in the end all will be well.\"\n\n\"Then these burdens, Michael, are our riches?\" asked both Orville and\nCallovan in the same breath.\n\n\"They are your riches,\" replied Michael. \"I have no burden, for I had\nno riches. Poor was I on earth, and unhampered am I now for the climb\nto the Cross. Look yonder.\" He pointed to a man standing at the fork\nof the roads. His burden was weighing him to the earth. \"He brought it\nall with him, sir,\" continued Michael; \"in life he gave nothing to\nGod. Now he must carry the burden up to the Cross, or leave it and go\nthe other road. He sees the Cross, too; but it will take ages for him\nto reach it.\"\n\nThe man had thrown down the burden and now started to climb without\nit. But unseen hands lifted it back to his shoulders. Men and women\ngoing to the other road beckoned him to throw it away again and come\nwith them; but he had seen the Cross and, keeping his eyes fixed upon\nit, he crawled along with his burden upon him, inch by inch, up the\nmountain.\n\n\"In life he was good and faithful, but he did not understand that\nriches were given him to use for a purpose and that he was not,\nhimself, the purpose,\" said Michael. \"It was a miracle of grace that\nhe could see the Cross at all.\"\n\n\"I knew that man in life,\" said Callovan. \"But why is not my burden\nheavier than his? I was richer by far.\"\n\n\"You lightened it by more charity than he,\" said Michael, \"but you did\nnot lighten it sufficiently: Had you given even one-tenth of all that\nyou had, you would now be even as I am--free of all burden.\"\n\n\"I wish I had known that,\" said Callovan.\n\n\"But, alas! you did know,\" replied Michael. \"We all knew these things.\nWe are not learning them now. But look up, sir, and see the old man\nwith the heavy burden above you. You are going to pass him on your\nway, yet he has been dead now for a year.\"\n\nCallovan looked up and gasped: \"My father!\"\n\n\"Yes; your father,\" said Michael. \"You had more charity than he, and\nwhen you did give you gave with better motives; yet he always saw the\nCross more plainly than you. He was filled with Faith.\"\n\n\"Is it possible that I will be able to help him when I get to his\nside?\" asked Callovan.\n\n\"I think,\" replied Michael, \"that you may; but you could have helped\nhim better in life by prayers and the Great Sacrifice. You probably\nmay go along with him, when you reach him, for you both see the Cross,\nand perhaps you will be allowed to aid him up the mountain.\"\n\nThey had by this time reached the first steps of the climb. Orville\ncould read the words which marked the mountain road: \"THE ROAD OF PAIN\nAND HOPE.\"\n\n\"But the Cross draws much of the pain out of it,\" said Michael. \"We\nmust leave you here, sir,\" he said to Callovan, turning to him. \"You\nhave far to go to reach your father; but your load is heavier than my\nmaster's, and then you must be lonely for a while.\"\n\n\"But why must I be lonely?\" asked Callovan.\n\n\"For many reasons, sir,\" replied Michael. \"You will know them all as\nyou go along. Knowledge will come. I may tell you but a few things\nnow. In life you loved company, and it was often an occasion of sin to\nyou. You go alone for a while in the Land of Death, on this pilgrimage\nto the Cross, so that you may contemplate God, Whom you failed to\nenjoy by meditation, when you could have had Him alone. Then you have\nfew to pray for you now, for such companions as you had in life did\nnot and do not pray. They will cover your coffin with flowers; but the\nonly prayers will be those of the poor whom you befriended. One\npriest, after your funeral, will offer the Great Sacrifice for you. He\nwas a friend whom you helped to educate. He will remember you at your\nburial, and again, too, before the climb is over.\"\n\n\"But, Michael,\" said Callovan, \"I gave a great deal to many good\nworks. Will none of the gifts count for me?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, it is true that you did give much, but,\" answered Michael,\n\"the gifts were offerings more often to your own vanity than they were\nto God. Motives alone govern the value of sacrifice in the Land of\nDeath. Look, now, behind you. There is one who can best answer your\nquestion.\"\n\nCallovan turned to see an old and venerable looking man at the fork of\nthe roads. He was gazing anxiously at the mountain, as if he dimly saw\nthe Cross; but his burden was terrific in its weight. It rested on the\nground before him. He scarcely had the courage to take the mountain\nroad, knowing that the burden must go with him.\n\n\"I have seen that man before,\" said Orville. \"They gave him a\nreception at our club once. He was a great philanthropist--yet, look\nat his burden.\"\n\n\"Philanthropist he was, but I fear he will go on The Road without\nEnding,\" said Michael. \"He has many amongst those who can hate for\neternity to hate him.\"\n\nSuddenly from the multitude of the dead came men and women, who looked\nwith hatred upon the old man, and surrounded him on every side and\nmenaced him with threatening fists. \"Beast!\" shouted one. \"I saw the\nCross in life, when I was young. The unbelief your work taught denies\nme the sight of it in death. I curse you!\"\n\n\"One year in the schools you founded,\" wailed another, \"lost me my\nGod.\"\n\n\"Why do you stand at the foot of the hill of the Cross, you\nhypocrite?\" cried another. \"You have, in the name of a false science,\nencouraged by your gifts, destroyed the Faith of thousands. You shall\nnot go by The Road of Pain and Hope, even though you might have to\nclimb till Judgment. You shall go with us.\"\n\nScreaming in terror, the old man was dragged away. They could hear his\nvoice in the distance, as the multitude drove him along The Road\nwithout Ending.\n\n\"Alas, I understand--now,\" sadly said Callovan. He gazed at his\nfriends with some of the pain of his coming solitude in his eyes.\n\"Good-bye. Shall we meet again?\"\n\nMichael answered: \"We shall meet again. Your pain may be very great;\nbut there is an end. He who sets his foot on this Road has a promise\nwhich makes even pain a blessing.\"\n\nCallovan was left behind, for Orville and Michael climbed faster than\nhe.\n\n\"Michael,\" said his master, \"I am greatly favored. He was much better\nin life than I, yet now he climbs alone.\"\n\n\"You are not favored, sir,\" answered Michael. \"Many pray for you,\nbecause you loved the poor and sheltered and aided them. He has all\nthat is his, all that belongs to him. You have all that is yours. Do\nnot forget that we are marching toward the Sun of Justice.\"\n\nAnd so they went on, over The Road of Pain and Hope. Orville's feet\nwere weary and bleeding. His hands and knees were bruised by falls.\nThe adders stung him and the thorns pierced him. Cold rain chilled him\nand warm blasts oppressed him. He was one great pain; but within a\nvoice that was his own kept saying: \"I go to the Cross, I go to the\nCross,\" and he forgot the suffering. He thought of earth for an\ninstant; but the thought brought him no longing to return. His breast\nwas swelling and seemed bursting with a wonderful great Love that made\nhim content with every tortured step. He even seemed to love the pain;\nand he could not stop, nor could he rest for the Flaming Cross that\nwas drawing him on. He longed for it with a burning and intense\ndesire. His eyes were wet with the tears of devotion, and his whole\nbeing cried out: \"More pain, O Lord! more pain, if only I may sooner\nreach the Cross!\"\n\nBut Michael tried to ease his master's burden.\n\nAt last Orville said to him: \"How many ages have passed since I died?\"\n\n\"You have been dead for ten minutes, sir,\" answered Michael. \"The\nminutes are as ages in the Land of Death until you reach the Cross,\nand then the ages are as minutes.\"\n\n\nIV.\n\nThey kept toiling on, but had known no darkness along The Road of Pain\nand Hope. Orville's hand sought Michael's, and it opened to draw him\ncloser. \"Michael, my brother,\" he said, \"may you tell me why there is\nno night?\"\n\nMichael smiled again when Orville called him \"brother\" and answered:\n\"Because, my master, on The Road of Pain and Hope there is no despair;\nbut it is always night along The Road without Ending.\"\n\n\"Can you tell me, Michael, my brother,\" said Orville, \"Why my eyes\nsuffer more keenly than all the rest?\"\n\n\"Because,\" said Michael, \"your eyes, master, have offended most in\nlife, and so are now the weakest.\"\n\n\"But my hands have offended, too,\" said Orville, \"and behold, they are\nalready painless and cured of the bruises.\"\n\n\"Your hands are beautiful and white, master,\" said Michael, \"and were\nlittle punished, because they were often outstretched in charity and\nin good deeds.\"\n\nThey had come to the brink of a Chasm which it seemed impossible to\ncross, but they hoped, for they knew no despair. Multitudes of people\nwere before them on the brink of the Chasm looking longingly at the\nother side. A few pilgrims were being lifted, by unseen hands, and\ncarried across the Chasm. Some Power there was to bear them which\nneither Orville nor Michael understood. Many, however, had waited\nlong, while some were taken quickly. Every hand was outstretched\ntoward the Cross, and it could easily be seen that waiting was a\ntorture worse than the bruises.\n\n\"Alas, Michael,\" said Orville, \"it is harder to suffer the wait than\nthe pain.\"\n\n\"Yes, master,\" Michael replied, \"but this is The Chasm of Neglected\nDuties. We must stay until those we have fulfilled may come to bear us\nacross. The one who goes first will await the other on the opposite\nside.\"\n\n\"Alas, Michael,\" said Orville, \"you must wait for me. I have few good\ndeeds and few duties well done.\"\n\nEven as he spoke, Michael's face began to shine and his eyes were\nmelting. Orville looked and saw a little child with great wings, and\nbeautiful beyond all dreaming. Her gaze was fixed on Michael with the\ndeepest love and longing. Her voice was like the music of a harp, and\nshe spoke but one little word:\n\n\"Daddy!\"\n\n\"Bride! My little Bride,\" whispered Michael.\n\nOrville knew her, Michael's first-born child, who had died in infancy.\nHe remembered her funeral. In pity for poor Michael, and feeling a\nduty toward his servant, he had followed the coffin to the church and\nto the grave, and had borne the expenses of her burial. His friends\nwondered at such consideration for one so far beneath him.\n\n\"Daddy,\" whispered the beautiful spirit, \"I am to bring you across,\nand master, too. God sent me. And, daddy, there are millions of\nchildren who could bring their parents over quickly, if they had only\nlet them be born. It was you and mother, daddy, who gave me life,\nbaptism and Heaven. Had I lived only a minute, it would have been\nworth it. And, daddy, mother is coming soon, and I am waiting for you\nboth.\"\n\nThen the beautiful child touched and supported them, and lo! they were\nwafted across The Chasm of Neglected Duties: Michael, because he\nfollowed the command and made his marriage a Holy Sacrament to fulfil\nthe law of God; Orville, because he had shown mercy and recognition of\nhis servant's claim upon him.\n\nWithout understanding why, Orville found himself repeating over and\nover again the words: \"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain\nmercy.\" Michael heard him and turned to say: \"Yes, master, and\n'Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God'! How well it\nwas for us that we had the heart of a child to plead our cause when we\ncame to The Chasm of Neglected Duties.\"\n\n\nV.\n\n\"Michael,\" said Orville, after a long and tiresome climb over a steep\npart of the Road, \"these rocks are sharp and treacherous, and I have\ntoiled hard and have made but very little progress.\"\n\n\"I know, master,\" said Michael, \"but these rocks are the little faults\nof our lives. Such rocks cover the mountain at this spot and are\nconstantly growing more numerous, yet one meets only one's own. The\nPlain is not far away now. We are just reaching it, and these stones\nare the only way to it.\"\n\n\"What Plain is it, Michael?\" asked Orville.\n\n\"It is called, master,\" said Michael, \"The Plain of Sinful Things. It\nis between us and the foot of the Cross.\"\n\n\"Is it hard to pass over, Michael?\" again asked Orville.\n\n\"It is very hard to most men, sir,\" said Michael. \"No one knows how\nhard who has not been on it; and yet when one has been over, one\nremembers nothing, for all is forgotten when The Flaming Cross is\nreached.\"\n\nThey stood now at the top of the stones, and on the edge of the vast\nPlain, which lay white and scorching before them. Multitudes, as far\nas the eye could see, were upon it. They struggled painfully along;\nbut none stopped to rest, for all faces were turned to The Flaming\nCross.\n\nMichael took but one step and a great change came over him. Orville\nlooked at him again and again, but Michael did not seem to notice the\nchange in himself. His face shone with a marvelous beauty. His\ngarments became robes of brilliant white. About his head a light\nplayed, the like of which Orville had never seen. It was more wondrous\nthan dreams of Paradise. His bleeding feet were healed and shone like\nhis visage. Orville thought that he heard sweet voices about Michael,\nbut voices which spoke to Michael only.\n\n\"Michael, my brother,\" he said, \"what is this; tell me?\" and Orville's\nvoice sounded soft, as if he were praying. \"Michael, who are you?\"\n\nBut Michael only smiled kindly and humbly. \"I am none other than your\nservant, sir,\" he answered. \"He who serves, reigns; for his glory is\nin the service. I will be with you to the foot of the Cross. In life\nyou were a good master. You will need me until you reach your own\nMaster there.\" Michael pointed to where the Cross shone out over the\nblistering Plain.\n\nThen they went on, but the heat penetrated to Orville's very marrow\nand he seemed to faint under it, yet he always kept struggling\nforward. The burning sands cooked his bleeding feet, but the anguish\ndid not halt him. Torrents of tears and sweat rolled down from him,\nbut his hunger for the Cross made him forget. To his pain-racked body\nit felt as if the Cross gave out the great heat, but Orville was more\ngrateful than ever for it.\n\n\"Does this heat really come from the Cross, Michael?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, from the Cross, master,\" said Michael, \"for this is The Plain of\nSinful Things, and the Cross is the Sun of Justice.\"\n\nThen like a flash Orville began to understand, even as Michael had\nunderstood from the beginning. Michael saw the change in him. His face\nbecame more radiant before he spoke.\n\n\"Master,\" he said, \"my service is almost over. It was my prayer\nconstantly that I could return your goodness to me and mine; but on\nearth you were rich and I was poor. Here, master, in The Land of the\nDead, I am rich and you are poor. God let me make my pilgrimage with\nyou. The child you buried when I had nothing, bore you over The Chasm\nof Neglected Duties, where your hardest lot was to be found. You did\nnot even see another Chasm, which almost all meet, The Chasm of\nForgotten Things, for the prayers gathered in a little chapel which\nyou builded in a wilderness, a charity you forgot the day after you\ndid it, filled up the Chasm before you came to it. Here on The Plain\nof Sinful Things we would naturally separate, for I had never wilfully\nsinned against God. But you needed me, and He let me stay. Master,\nyour burden has fallen from you.\"\n\nIt was true. Orville was standing erect, with his eyes looking\nstraight at The Flaming Cross, which did not blind him. His burden had\nvanished, and his face had almost the radiance of Michael's.\n\n\"The Cross is near you now, master. Look, It comes toward you. Your\npilgrimage is ending.\"\n\nOrville could see It coming, gently and slowly. The Plain was now all\nbehind him, and yet it seemed as if he had scarcely gone over more\nthan a few yards of it. The harping of a thousand harps was not sweet\nenough for the music that filled the air. Like the falling of many\nwaters in the distance came the promise of coolness to Orville's\nparched throat and his burning lips. His breast heaved and he felt his\nheart, full of Love, break in his bosom; but with it broke the bond of\nSin, and he knew that he was dead, indeed, to earth, as out from the\nstained cover came his purified soul.\n\nThe Cross was close to him now. With his new spiritual vision he saw\nthat in form it was One like himself, but One with eyes that were soft\nand mild and full of tenderness, with arms outstretched and\nnail-prints like glittering gems upon them, with a wounded side and\nout from it a flood pouring which cooled the parched sands, so that\nfrom them the flowers sprang up, full panoplied in color, form and\nbeauty, and sweetly smelling. Around The Flaming Cross fluttered\ncountless wings, and childish voices made melody, soft and harmonious\nbeyond all compare. All else that Orville ever knew vanished before\nthe glance of the Beloved; faces and forms dearest and nearest, old\nhaunts and older affections, all were melted into this One Great Love\nthat is Eternal. The outstretched arms were wrapped around them. The\nblood from the wounded side washed all their pains from them. On their\nforeheads fell the Kiss of Peace, and Orville and Michael had come\nhome.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VICAR-GENERAL\n\n\nThe Vicar-General was dead. With his long, white hair smoothed back,\nhe lay upon a silk pillow, his hands clasped over a chalice upon his\nbreast. He was clad in priestly vestments; and he looked, as he lay in\nhis coffin before the great altar with the candles burning on it, as\nif he were just ready to arise and begin a new _\"Introibo\"_ in Heaven.\nThe bells of the church wherein the Vicar-General lay asleep had\ncalled his people all the morning in a sad and solemn tolling. The\npeople had come, as sad and solemn as the bells. They were gathered\nabout the bier of their pastor. Priests from far and near had chanted\nthe Office of the Dead; the Requiem Mass was over, and the venerable\nchief of the diocese, the Bishop himself, stood in cope and mitre, to\ngive the last Absolution.\n\n[Illustration: \"The Bishop himself stood in cope and mitre to give the\nlast absolution.\"]\n\nThe Bishop had loved the Vicar-General--had loved him as a brother.\nFor was it not the Vicar-General who had bidden His Lordship welcome,\nwhen he came from his distant parish to take up the cares of a\ndiocese. With all the timidity of a stranger, the Bishop had feared;\nbut the Vicar-General guided his steps safely and well. Now the\nBishop, gazing at the white, venerable face, remembered--and wept. In\nthe midst of the Absolution, his voice broke. Priests bit their lips,\nas their eyes filled with hot tears; but the Sisters who taught in the\nparochial school and their little charges, did not attempt to keep\nback their sobs. For others than the Bishop loved the Vicar-General.\n\nThere was one standing by the coffin, whom neither the Bishop, priests\nnor people saw. It was the Vicar-General, himself. He still wore his\npriestly vestments. Was he not a priest forever? His arms were folded\nand his face was troubled. He knew every one present; but none of them\nknew that he was so near. He scanned the lines of the Bishop's face\nand seemed to wonder at his tears. He was quite unmoved by the sorrow\naround him, did not seem to care at all. Yet in life the Vicar-General\nhad cared much about the feelings of others toward him. His eyes\nwandered over the great congregation and rested on the children, but\nwithout tenderness in them. This, too, was very unlike the\nVicar-General. Then the eyes came back and rested on the priestly form\nin the coffin, and the trouble of them increased.\n\nThe Absolution was over and the coffin was closed when the\nVicar-General looked up again, and knew that Another Unseen besides\nhimself was present. The Other was looking over the coffin at the\nVicar-General; looking steadily, with eyes that searched down deep and\nwith lashes that were very, very still. He wore a long robe of some\ntexture the Vicar-General had never seen in life. It shimmered like\nsilk, shone like gold, and sparkled as if dusted with tiny diamonds.\nThe hair of the Other was long, and fell, bright and beautiful, over\nhis shoulders. His face seemed to shine out of it, like a jewel in a\ngold setting. His limbs seemed strong and manly in spite of his\nbeardless face. The Vicar-General noticed what seemed like wings\nbehind him; but they were not wings, only something which gave the\nimpression of them. The Vicar-General could not remove his eyes from\nthe Other. Gradually he knew that he was gazing at an Angel, and an\nAngel who had intimate relation to himself.\n\nThe body was borne out of the church. The Angel moved to follow, and\nthe Vicar-General knew that he also had to go. The day was perfect,\nfor it was in the full glory of the summer; but the Vicar-General\nnoticed little of either the day or the gathering. The Angel did not\nspeak, but his eyes said \"come\": and so the Vicar-General\nfollowed--whither, he did not know.\n\nThe Vicar-General was not sure that it was even a place to which the\nAngel led him; but he felt with increasing trouble that he was to be\nthe center of some momentous event. There were people arriving, most\nof whom the Vicar-General knew--men and women of his flock, to whom he\nhad ministered and many of whom he had seen die. They all smiled at\nthe Vicar-General as they passed, and ranged themselves on one side.\nThe Silent Angel stood very close to the Vicar-General. As the people\ncame near, the priest felt his vestments grow light upon him, as if\nthey were lifting him in the air. They shone very brightly, too, and\ntook on a new beauty. The Vicar-General felt glad that he was wearing\nthem.\n\nThe Silent Angel looked at him, but spoke not a word; yet the\nVicar-General understood at once, knew that he was to answer at a\nstern trial, and that these were his witnesses--the souls of the\npeople to whom he ministered, to whom he had broken the Bread of Life.\nHow many there were! They gladdened the Vicar-General's heart. There\nwere his converts, the children he had baptized, his penitents, the\npure virgins whose vows he had consecrated to God, the youths whom his\nexample had won to the altar. They were all there. The Vicar-General\ncounted them, and he could not think of a single one missing.\n\nOn the other side, witnesses began to arrive and the Vicar-General's\nlook of trouble returned. He felt his priestly vestments becoming\nheavy. Especially did he feel the weight of the amice, which was like\na heavy iron helmet crushed down over his shoulders. The cincture was\nbinding him very tightly. He felt that he could scarcely move for it.\nThe maniple rendered his left arm almost powerless. The stole was\npulling at him, and the weight of the chasuble made him very faint.\n\nHe knew some of the witnesses, but only a few. He had seen these few\nbefore. They were his neglected spiritual children. He remembered each\nand every case. One was a missed sick-call: his had been the fault.\nAnother was a man driven from the church by a harsh word spoken in\nanger. The Vicar-General remembered the day when he referred to this\nman in his sermon and saw him arise in his pew and leave. He did not\nreturn. Another was a priest--his own assistant. The Vicar-General had\nno patience with his weaknesses. From disgust at them his feelings had\nturned to rancor against the man--and the assistant was lost. The\nVicar-General trembled; for these things he had passed by as either\njustified by reason of the severity necessary to his office, or as\nwiped out by his virtues--and he had many virtues.\n\nThe Vicar-General's eyes sought those of the Silent Angel, and he lost\nsome of his fear, while the weight of his vestments became a little\nlighter. But the Silent Angel's gaze caused the Vicar-General again to\nlook at the witnesses. Those against him were increasing. The faces of\nthe new-comers he did not know. The Vicar-General felt like protesting\nthat there must be some mistake, for the new-comers were red men,\nbrown men, yellow men and black men, besides white men whose faces\nwere altogether strange. He was sure none of these had ever been in\nhis parish. The new-comers were dressed in the garbs of every nation\nunder the sun. They all alike looked very sternly at the\nVicar-General, so that he could not bear their glances. Still he could\nnot understand how he had ever offended against them, nor could he\nsurmise why they should be witnesses to his hurt.\n\nThe Silent Angel still stood beside the Vicar-General; but the\ntroubled soul of the priest could find no enlightenment in his eyes.\nAll the while witnesses kept arriving and the multitude of them filled\nhim with a great terror.\n\nAt last he saw a face amongst the strangers which he thought familiar,\nand he began to understand. It was the face of a priest he had known,\nwho had been in the same diocese, somewhat under the Vicar-General's\nauthority. On earth this priest had been one of the quiet kind,\nwithout ambition except to serve in a very humble way. He had always\nbeen in a parish so poor and small, that the priest himself had in his\nmanner, his bearing, even his clothes, reflected its humility and its\npoverty. The Vicar-General remembered that the priest had once come to\nhim as a matter of conscience to say that, while he was not\ncomplaining, nevertheless he really needed help and counsel. He said\nthat his scattered flock was being lost for the want of things which\ncould not be supplied out of its poverty. He told the Vicar-General\nwhat was needed. The Vicar-General remembered that he had agreed with\nhim; but had informed him very gently that it was the policy of the\ndiocese to let each parish maintain and support itself. The\nVicar-General had felt justified in refusing his aid, especially\nsince, at that time, he was collecting for a new organ for his own\nchurch, one with three banks of keys--the old one had but two. The\nVicar-General now knew that his slight feeling of worry at the time\nwas not groundless; but while then he had felt vaguely that he was\nwrong in his position, now he was certain of error. His eyes sought\nall through his own witnesses, but they found no likelihood of a\ntestimony in his favor based on the purchase of that grand organ. Then\nit all came to the Vicar-General, from the eyes of the Silent Angel,\nthat he had received on earth all the reward that was due to him for\nit.\n\nThe presence of the men of all colors and of strange garbs was still a\nmystery to the Vicar-General; but at last he saw among them a bent old\npriest with a long beard and a crucifix in his girdle. At once the\nVicar-General recognized him and his heart sank. Too well he\nremembered the poor missionary who had begged for assistance: money, a\nletter, a recommendation--anything; and had faced the inflexible\nofficial for half an hour during his pleading. The Vicar-General had\nfelt at that time, as he felt when his poor diocesan brother had come\nto him, that there was so much to be done at home, absolutely nothing\ncould be sent out. There was the Orphanage which the Bishop was\nbuilding and they were just beginning to gather funds for a new\nCathedral. The Bishop had acquiesced in the Vicar-General's ruling.\nThe diocese had flourished and had grown strong. The Vicar-General had\nalways been its pride. He was humbled now under the gaze of the Silent\nAngel, whose eyes told him wherein he had been at fault. He knew that\nthe fault was not in the building of the great and beautiful things,\nwhich of themselves were good because they were for God's glory; but\nrather was it in this: that he had shut out of his heart, for their\nsakes, the cry of affliction and the call of pleading voices from the\nnear and far begging but for the crumbs which meant to them Faith here\nand Life hereafter.\n\nNow, O God! there were the red men, the brown men, the yellow men and\nthe black men; not to speak of these white men whose faces were so\nstrange; and they were going to say something--something against him.\nHe could guess--could well guess what it was they would say. The\nVicar-General knew that he had been wrong, and that his wrong had come\ninto Eternity. He doubted if it ever could be made right, for he knew\nnow the value of a soul even in a black body. He knew it, but was it\ntoo late? His vestments were as heavy as lead.\n\nTrembling in every limb, the Vicar-General looked for his Judge; but\nhe could not see Him. He only felt His Presence. The Silent Angel had\na book in his hand. The Vicar-General could read its title. There was\na chalice on the cover, as if it spoke of priests, and under it he\nread:\n\nTHE LAW BY WHICH THEY SHALL BE JUDGED.\n\nThe Silent Angel opened the book and the Vicar-General saw that it had\nbut one page. Shining out from the page he read:\n\n\"THOU ART A PRIEST FOREVER.\"\n\nAnd under it:\n\n\"GO YE, THEREFORE, AND TEACH ALL NATIONS.\"\n\nSorrow was over the soul of the priest. Only the hope in the eyes of\nthe Silent Angel gave him hope, as he bowed his head before the\njudgment.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RESURRECTION OF ALTA\n\n\nFather Broidy rushed down the stone steps and ran toward the Bishop's\ncarriage which had just stopped at the curb. He flung open the door\nbefore the driver could alight, kissed the ring on the hand extended\nhim, helped its owner out and with a beaming face led the Bishop to\nthe pretty and comfortable rectory.\n\n\"Welcome! welcome to Alta, Bishop,\" he said as they entered the house,\n\"and sure the whole Deanery is here to back it up.\"\n\nThe Bishop smiled as the clergy trooped down the stairs echoing the\ngreeting. The Bishop knew them all, and he was happy, for well was he\naware that every man meant what he said. No one really ever admired\nthe Bishop, but all loved him, and each had a private reason of his\nown for it that he never confided to anyone save his nearest crony.\nThey were all here now to witness the resurrection of Alta--the\npoorest parish in a not too rich Diocese, hopeless three years ago,\nbut now--well, there it is across the lot, that symphony in stone,\nevery line of its chaste gothic a \"Te Deum\" that even an agnostic\ncould understand and appreciate; every bit of carving the paragraph of\na sermon that passers-by, perforce, must hear. To-day it is to be\nconsecrated, the cap-stone is to be set on Father Broidy's Arch of\nTriumph and the real life of Alta parish to begin.\n\n\"I thought you had but sixteen families here,\" said the Bishop as he\nwatched the crowd stream into the church.\n\n\"There were but eighteen, Bishop,\" the young priest answered, with a\nhappy smile that had considerable self-satisfaction in it. \"There are\nseventy-five now.\"\n\n\"And how did it come about, my lad?\" questioned the Bishop.\n\n\"Mostly through my mission bringing back some of the 'ought-to-be's,'\nbut I suppose principally because my friend McDermott opened his\nfactory to Catholics. You know, Bishop, that though he was born one of\nus he had somehow acquired a bitter hatred of the Church, and he never\nemployed Catholics until I brought him around.\"\n\nThere was a shadow of a smile that had meaning to it on the Bishop's\nface, as he patted the ardent young pastor on the arm, and said:\n\n\"Well, God bless him! God bless him! but I suppose we must begin to\nvest now. Is it not near ten o'clock?\"\n\nFather Broidy turned with a little shade of disappointment on his\nface to the work of preparation, and soon had the procession started\ntoward the church.\n\nShall I describe the beauty of it all?--the lights and flowers, the\nswinging censers, with the glory of the chant and the wealth of mystic\nsymbolism which followed the passing of that solemn procession into\nthe sanctuary? That could best be imagined, like the feeling in the\nheart of the young pastor who adored every line of the building. He\nhad watched the laying of each stone, and could almost count the chips\nthat had jumped from every chisel. There had never been so beautiful a\nday to him, and never such a ceremony but one--three years ago in the\nSeminary chapel. He almost forgot it in the glory of the present. Dear\nme, how well Kaiser did preach! He always knew it, did Father Broidy,\nthat young Kaiser had it in him. He did not envy him a bit of the\ncongratulations. They were a part of Father Broidy's triumph, too. It\nwas small wonder that the Dean whispered to the Bishop on the way back\nto the rectory:\n\n\"You will have to put Broidy at the top of the list now. He has surely\nwon his spurs to-day.\"\n\nBut again the shadow of the meaning smile was on the Bishop's face,\nand he said nothing; so the Dean looked wise and mysterious as he\nslapped the young pastor on the back and said:\n\n\"Proficiat, God bless you! You have done well, and I am proud of you,\nbut wait and listen.\" Then his voice dropped to a whisper. \"I was\ntalking to the Bishop about you.\"\n\nThe dinner? Well, Anne excelled herself. Is not that enough to say?\nBut perhaps you have never tasted Anne's cooking? Then you surely have\nheard of it, for all the Diocese knows about it, and everyone said\nthat Broidy was in his usual good luck when Anne left the Dean's and\nwent to keep house for the priest at Alta.\n\nStory followed story, as dish followed dish, and a chance to rub up\nthe wit that had been growing rusty in the country missions for months\nnever passed by unnoticed.\n\nThe Dean was toastmaster.\n\n\"Right Reverend Bishop and Reverend Fathers,\" he began, when he had\nenforced silence with the handle of his fork, \"it is my pleasure and\npride to be here to-day. Three years ago a young priest was sent to\none of the most miserably poor places in the Diocese. What he found\nyou all know. The sorrowful history of the decline of Alta was never a\nsecret record. Eighteen careless families left. Bigotry rampant.\nFactories closed to Catholics. Church dilapidated. Only the vestry for\na dwelling place. That was three years ago, and look around you\nto-day. See the church, house and school, and built out of what? That\nis Father Broidy's work and Father Broidy's triumph, but we are glad\nof it. No man has made such a record in our Diocese before. What have\nwe others done by the side of his extraordinary effort? Yet we are not\njealous. We know well the good qualities of soul and body in our young\nfriend, and God bless him. We are pleased to be with him, though\ncompletely outclassed. We rejoice in the resurrection of Alta. Let me\nnow call upon our beloved Bishop, whose presence among us is always a\njoy.\"\n\nWhen the applause subsided the Bishop arose, and for an instant stood\nagain with that meaning smile just lighting his face. For that instant\nhe did not utter a word. When he did speak there was a quiver in his\nvoice that age had never planted and in spite of the jokes which had\npreceded and the laughter which he had led, it sounded like a\nforerunner of tears. He had never been called eloquent, this\nkindly-faced and snow-crowned old man, but when he spoke it was always\nwith a gentle dignity, and a depth of sympathy and feeling that\ncompelled attention.\n\n\"It is a great satisfaction, my dear Fathers,\" he began, \"to find so\nmany of you here to rejoice with our young friend and his devoted\npeople, and to thus encourage the growth of a priestly life which he\nhas so well begun in Alta. No one glories in his success more than I.\nNo one more warmly than I, his Bishop, tenders congratulations. This\nis truly a day the Lord has made--this day in Alta. It is a day of\njoy and gladness for priest and people. Will you pardon an old man if\nhe stems the tide of mirth for an instant? He could not hope to stem\nit for long. On such an occasion as this it would burst the barriers,\nleaving what he would show you once more submerged beneath rippling\nwaters and silver-tipped waves of laughter. It seems wrong even to\nthink of the depths where lie the bodies of the dead and the hulks of\nthe wrecked. But the bottom always has its treasure as well as its\ntragedy. There are both a tragedy and a treasure in the story I will\ntell you to-day.\"\n\n\"You remember Father Belmond, the first pastor of Alta? Yes! Then let\nme tell you a story that your generous priestly souls will treasure as\nit deserves.\"\n\nThe table was strangely silent. Not one of the guests had ever before\nknown the depth of sympathy in the old Bishop till now. Every chord in\nthe nature of each man vibrated to the touch of his words.\n\n[Illustration: \"I asked him how he lived on the pittance he had\nreceived.\"]\n\n\"It was ten years ago,\" went on the Bishop--\"ah, how years fly fast to\nthe old!--a friend of college days, a bishop in an Eastern State,\nwrote me a long letter concerning a young convert he had just\nordained. He was a lad of great talents, brilliant and handsome, the\nson of wealthy parents, who, however, now cast him off, giving him to\nunderstand that he would receive nothing from them. The young man was\nfilled with zeal, and he begged the bishop to give him to some\nmissionary diocese wherein he could work in obscurity for the greater\nglory of God. He was so useful and so brilliant a man that the bishop\ndesired to attach him to his own household and was loath to lose him,\nbut the priest begged hard and was persistent; so the bishop asked me\nto take him for a few years and give him actual contact with the\nhardships of life in a pioneer state. Soon, he thought, the young man\nwould be willing to return to his larger field. The bishop, in other\nwords, wanted to test him. I sadly needed priests, so when he came\nwith the oil still wet on his hands, I gave him a place--the worst I\nhad--I gave him Alta. Some of you older men know what it was then. The\nstory of Alta is full of sorrow. I told it to him, but he thanked me\nand went to his charge. I expected to see him within a week, but I did\nnot see him for a year. Then I sent for him, and with his annual\nreport in my hand I asked him how he lived on the pittance which he\nhad received. He said that it took very little when one was careful\nand that he lived well enough--but his coat was threadbare and his\nshoes were sadly patched. There was a brightness in his eyes too, and\na flush on his cheek that I did not quite like. I asked him of his\nwork and he told me that he was hopeful--told me of the little repairs\nhe had made, of a soul won back, but in the conversation I actually\nstole the sad tale of his poverty from him. Yet he made no complaint\nand went back cheerfully to Alta.\n\n\"The next month he came again, but this time he told me of the dire\nneed of aid, not for himself, but for his church. The people, he said,\nwere poor pioneers, and in the comfortless and ugly old church they\nwere losing their grip on religion. The young people were falling away\nvery fast. All around were well ordered and beautiful sectarian\nchurches. He could see the effect, not visible to less interested eyes\nbut very plain to his. He feared that another generation would be lost\nand he asked me if there was any possibility of securing temporary aid\nsuch as the sects had for their building work. I had to tell him that\nnothing could be done. I told him of the poverty of my own Diocese,\nand that, while his was a poor place, there were others approaching\nit. In my heart I knew there was something sadly lacking in our\nnational work for the Church, but I could do nothing myself. He wrote\nto his own State for help, but the letters were unanswered. Except for\nthe few stipends I could give him and which he devoted to his work, it\nwas impossible to do anything. He was brave and never faltered though\nthe eyes in him shone brighter and in places his coat was worn\nthrough. A few days later I received a letter from his bishop asking\nhow he did and saying that he would appoint him to an excellent parish\nif he would return home willingly. I sent the letter to Alta with a\nlittle note of my own, congratulating him on his changed condition. He\nreturned the letter to me with a few lines saying: 'I can not go. If I\ndesert my people here it would be a sin. There are plenty at home for\nthe rich places but you have no one to send here. Please ask the\nbishop to let me stay. I think it is God's will.' The day I received\nthat letter I heard one of my priests at the Cathedral say: 'How seedy\nthat young Belmond looks! for an Eastern man he is positively sloppy\nin his dress. He ought to brace up and think of the dignity of his\ncalling. Surely such a man is not calculated to impress himself upon\nour separated brethren.' And another chimed in: 'I wonder why he left\nhis own diocese?'\"\n\n\"I heard no more for two years except for the annual report, and now\nand then a request for a dispensation. I did hear that he was teaching\nthe few children of the parish himself, and every little while I saw\nan article in some of the papers, unsigned but suspiciously like his\nstyle, and I suspected that he was earning a little money with his\npen.\n\n\"One winter night, returning alone from a visitation of Vinta, the\nfast train was stalled by a blizzard at the Alta station. I went out\non the platform to secure a breath of fresh air, but I had scarcely\nclosed the door when a boy rushed up to me and asked if I were a\nCatholic priest. When I nodded he said: 'We have been trying to get a\npriest all day, but the wires are down in the storm. Father Belmond\nis sick and the doctor says he will die. He told me to look through\nevery train that came in. He was sure I would find some one.' Reaching\nat once for my grip and coat I rushed to the home of the Pastor. The\nhome was the lean-to vestry of the old log church. In one corner\nFather Belmond lived; another was given over to the vestments and\nlinens. Everything was spotlessly clean. On a poor bed the priest was\ntossing, moaning and delirious. Only the boy had attended him in his\nsickness until the noon of that day when two good old women heard of\nhis condition and came. One of them was at his bedside when I entered.\nWhen she saw my collar she lifted her hands in that peculiarly\nHibernian gesture that means so much, and said:\n\n\"'Sure, God sent you here this night. He has been waiting since noon\nto die.'\n\n\"The sick priest opened his eyes that now had the brightness of death\nin them and appeared to look through me. He seemed to be very far\naway. But slowly the eyes told me that he was coming back--back from\nthe shadows; then at last he spoke:\n\n\"'You, Bishop? Thank God!'\"\n\n\"He made his simple confession. I anointed him and brought him\nViaticum from the tabernacle in the church. Then the eyes went wild\nagain, and I saw when they opened and looked at me that he had already\nturned around, and was again walking through the shadows of the Great\nValley that ends the Long Road.\n\n[Illustration: \"Then I learned--old priest and bishop as I was--I\nlearned my lesson.\"]\n\n\"Through the night we three, the old woman, the boy and myself,\nwatched him and listened to his wanderings. Then I learned--old priest\nand bishop as I was--I learned my lesson. The lips that never spoke a\ncomplaint were moved, but not by his will, to go over the story of two\nterrible years. It was a sad story. It began with his great zeal. He\nwanted to do so much, but the black discouragement of everything\nslowly killed his hopes. He saw the Faith going from his people. He\nsaw that they were ceasing to care. The town was then, as it is\nto-day, McDermott's town, but McDermott had fallen away when his\nriches came, and some terrible event, a quarrel with a former priest\nwho had attended Alta from a distant point, had left McDermott bitter.\nHe practically drove the pastor from his door. He closed his factory\nto the priest's people and one by one they left. Only eighteen\nfamilies stayed. The dying priest counted them over in his dreams, and\nsobbed as he told of the others who had gone. Then the bigotry that\nMcDermott's faith had kept concealed broke out under the encouragement\nof McDermott's infidelity. The boys of the town flung insults at the\npriest as he passed. The people gave little, and that grudgingly. I\ncould almost feel his pain as he told in his delirium how, day after\nday, he had dragged his frail body to church and on the round of\nduty. But every now and then, as if the words came naturally to bear\nhim up, he would say:\n\n\"'It's for God's sake. I am nothing. It will all come in His own good\ntime.'\n\n\"Then I knew the spirit that kept him to his work. He went over his\nvisit to me. How he had hoped, and then how his hopes were dashed to\nthe ground. Oh, dear Lord, had I known what it all meant to that\nsensitive, saintly nature, I would have sold my ring and cross to give\nhim what he needed. But my words seemed to have broken him and he came\nhome to die. The night of his return he spent before the altar in his\nlog church, and, Saints of Heaven, how he prayed! When I heard his\npoor, dry lips whisper over the prayer once more I bowed my head on\nthe coverlet and cried as only a child can cry--and I was only a child\nat that minute in spite of my white hair and wrinkles. He had offered\na supreme sacrifice--his life. I gleaned from his prayers that his\nparents had done him the one favor of keeping up his insurance and\nthat he had made it over to his church. So he wanted to die at his\npost and piteously begged God to take him. For his death he knew would\ngive Alta a church. He seemed penetrated with the idea that alive he\nwas useless, but that his death meant the resurrection of Alta. When I\nheard that same expression used so often to-day I lived over again the\nwhole story of that night in the little vestry. All this time he had\nbeen picking the coverlet, and his hands seemed, during the pauses,\nto be holding the paten as if he were gathering up the minute\nparticles from the corporal. At last his hand found mine. He clung to\nit, and just an instant his eyes looked at me with reason in them. He\nsmiled, and murmured, 'It is all right, now, Bishop.' I heard a sob\nback of me where the boy stood, and the old woman was praying. He was\ntrying to speak again, and I caught the words, 'God's sake--I am\nnothing--His good time.' Then he was still, just as the morning sun\nbroke through the windows.\n\n\"That minute, Reverend Fathers, began the resurrection of Alta. The\nold woman told me how it happened. He was twenty-five miles away\nattending one of his missions when the blizzard was at its height.\nMcDermott fell sick and a telegram was sent for the priest--the last\nmessage before the wires came down. Father Belmond started to drive\nthrough the storm back to Alta. He succeeded in reaching McDermott's\nbedside and gave him the last Sacraments. He did not break down\nhimself until he returned to the vestry, but for twenty-four hours he\ntossed in fever before they found him.\n\n\"McDermott grew better. He sent for me when he heard I was in town.\nThe first question he asked was: 'Is he dead?' I told McDermott the\nstory just as I am telling you. 'God forgive me,' said the sick man,\n'that priest died for me. When he came here I ordered him out of my\noffice, yet when they told him I was sick he drove through the storm\nfor my sake. He believed in the worth of a soul, and he himself was\nthe noblest soul that Alta ever had.'\n\n\"I said nothing. Somebody better than a mere bishop was talking to\nMcDermott, and I, His minister, was silent in His presence. 'Bishop,'\nsaid McDermott, after long thought, 'I never really believed until\nnow; I'm sorry that it took a man's life to bring back the Faith of my\nfathers. Send us a priest to Alta--one who can do things: one after\nthe stamp of the saint in the vestry. I'll be his friend and together\nwe will carry on the work he began. I'll see him through if God spares\nme.'\n\n\"Dear Fathers, it is needless to say what I did.\n\n\"Father Broidy, on this happy day I have not re-echoed the praises\nthat have been showered upon you as much as perhaps I might have done,\nbecause I reserved for you a praise that is higher than all of them. I\nbelieved when I sent you here that you were of his stamp. You have\ndone your duty and you have done it well. I am not ungrateful and I\nshall not forget. But your best praise from me is, that I firmly\nbelieve that you, under like circumstances, would also have willingly\ngiven your life for the resurrection of Alta.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAN WITH A DEAD SOUL\n\n\nYears ago there lived a man whose soul had died; and died as only a\nsoul may die, by the man's own deed. His body lived still for\ndebauchery, his mind lived still to ponder on evil, but his soul was\nstifled in a flood of sin. So the man lived his life with a dead soul.\n\nWhen the soul died the man's dreams changed. The fairy children of his\nyouth came no more to play with him and his visions were of lands bare\nand desolate, with great rocks instead of green trees; and sandy, dry\nand arid plains instead of bright grass and flowers. But out of the\nrocks shone fiery veins of virgin gold and the pitiless sun that dried\nthe plain reflected countless smaller suns of untouched diamonds.\nHither in dreams came often the man with the dead soul.\n\nThe years passed and the man realized with his mortal eyes the full of\nhis dreams and touched mortal foot to the desert that now was all his\nown. Greedily he picked and dug till his weary body cried \"enough.\"\nThen only he left, when his strength could dig no more. So he began to\nlive more evilly because of his new power of wealth; and his soul was\nfarther than ever from resurrection.\n\nNow it happened that the man with the dead soul soon found that he had\nbecome a leper because of his sins, and so with all his gains was\ndriven from among men. He went back to the desert and watched the gold\nveins in the rocks and the shining of the diamonds, all the time\nhoping for more strength to dig. But while waiting, his musings turned\nto hateful thoughts of all his kindred, and abhorrence of all good. So\nhe said: \"I have been driven from among men because they love virtue,\nhenceforth I will hate it; because they loved God, henceforth I will\nlove only evil; because they use their belongings to work mercy,\nhenceforth I will use mine to inflict revenge. I may not go to men, so\nI will go to those who do men harm.\"\n\nSo the man with the dead soul went to live among the beasts. He dwelt\nfor a long time in the forests and the most savage of the brutes were\nhis friends. One day he saw a hermit at the door of his cave. \"How\nlivest thou here?\" he asked.\n\n\"From the offerings of the raven who brings me bread and the wild bees\nwho give it sweetness and the great beasts who clothe me,\" answered\nthe hermit. Then the man with the dead soul left the beasts because\nthey did good and were merciful.\n\nOut of the forest the North Wind met the man and tossed him upon its\nwings and buffeted him and chilled him to the marrow. In vain he\nasked for mercy, the North Wind would give none. Half frozen and sore\nwith blows the man gasped--\n\n\"'Tis well! I will dwell with thee for thou givest nothing but evil.\"\nSo he went to dwell in the cave of the North Wind and the chill of the\npitiless cold was good to him on account of his dead soul.\n\nOne day he saw the clouds coming, headed for his own desert, and the\nNorth Wind went to meet them and a mighty battle took place in the\nair; but the North Wind was the victor. White on the ground where the\nchill had flung them lay the clouds in snow crystals; and the man\nlaughed his joy at the sight of the ruin--for he knew that the\nrain-clouds would have greened his desert and made it beautiful. But\nhe heard the men who cultivated the land on which the snow had fallen\nbless the North Wind that it had given their crops protection and\npromised plenty to the fields of wheat. Then the man with the dead\nsoul cursed the North Wind and went to dwell in the ocean.\n\nThe waters bade him stay and daily he saw their work of evil. Down in\nthe depths dead men's bones whitened beside the wealth of treasure the\nocean had claimed. He walked along the bottom for years exulting in\ndestruction before he came to the surface to watch the storms and\nlaugh at the big waves eating the great ships. But there was only a\ngentle breeze blowing that day, and he saw great vessels laden with\ntreasure and wealth passing from nation to nation. He saw the dolphins\nplay over the bosom of the waters and the sea-gulls happy to ride the\nwaves. Then afar off he saw the bright columns where all day long the\nsun kept working, drawing moisture to the sky from the waters to\nspread it, even over the man's barren desert, to make it bloom.\n\nCursing again, the man with the dead soul left the waters and buried\nhimself beneath the earth, to hide in dark caves where neither light\nnor sound could go. But a glowworm that lived in the cave made it all\ntoo bright. By its lantern he saw the hidden mysterious forces\nworking. Through tiny paths warmth and nourishment ran to be near the\nsurface that baby seeds might germinate, live and flourish for man's\nbenefit. He saw great forests draw their strength from the very Earth\ninto which he had burrowed, to fall again in death into its kindly\narms and so to change into carbon and remain stored away for man's\nfuture comfort. Then the man with the dead soul could live in earth no\nlonger, and neither could he go to the beasts, to the air, or to the\nwaters.\n\n\"I will return to my desert,\" he said, \"for there is more of evil in\nthe gold and diamonds than anywhere else.\"\n\nSo he went back where the gold still shone from the veins in the\ncliffs and the diamonds twinkled in the pitiless sun rays. But a\nthrone had been raised on a hillock and a king sat thereon with a\ncrown on his head and a trident in his hand.\n\n\"Who art thou who invadest my desert?\" asked the man.\n\n\"Thy master,\" answered the king.\n\n\"And who is my master?\" asked the man.\n\n\"The spirit of evil.\"\n\n\"Then would I dwell with thee,\" said the man.\n\n\"Thou hast served me well and thou art welcome,\" said the king.\n\"Behold!\"\n\nHe stretched forth the trident and demons peopled the desert.\n\n\"These are thy companions. Thou shalt dwell with them, and without\ntorture, unless thy evil deeds be turned to good to torture me. Know\nthat thou hast passed from mortal life, and thy deeds of evil have\nbrought thee my favor. If thou hast been successful in reaping the\nevil thou has sown, thou shalt be my friend. But know that for every\ngood thing that comes from it, thou shalt be tortured with whips of\nscorpions.\"\n\nSo the man with the dead soul walked through rows of demons with whips\nin their hands; but no arm was raised to strike, for he had sown his\nevil well and the king did not frown on him.\n\nThen one day a single whip of scorpions fell upon his shoulders.\nPain-racked he looked at the king and saw that his face was twisted\nwith agony: then he knew that somewhere an evil deed of his own had\nbeen turned to good. And even while he looked the whips began to fall\nmercilessly from all sides and the king, frantic with agony, cried\nout:\n\n\"Tear aside the veil. Let him see.\"\n\nIn an instant the whips ceased to fall and the man with the dead soul\nsaw all the Earth before him--and understood. A generation had passed\nsince he had gone, but his keen eye sought and found his wealth. The\nfinger of God had touched it and behold good had sprung from it\neverywhere. It was building temples to the mighty God where the poor\ncould worship; and the hated Cross met his eye wherever he looked,\ndazzling his vision and blinding him with its light. Wherever the\nFinger of God glided the good came forth; the hungry were nourished,\nthe naked clothed, the frozen warmed and the truth preached. Before\nhim was the good growing from his impotent evil every moment and\nmultiplying as it grew; and behind him he heard the howls of the\ntortured demons and the impatient hisses of the whips that hungered\nfor his back.\n\nShuddering he closed his eyes, but a voice ringing on the air made him\nopen them again. The voice was strangely like his own, yet purified\nand sweet with sincerity and goodness. It was singing the \"Miserere,\"\nand the words beat him backward to the demons as they arose.\n\nHe caught a glimpse of the singer, a young man clad in a brown habit\nof penance with the cord of purity girt about him. His eyes looked\nonce into the eyes of the man with the dead soul. They were the eyes\nof the one to whom he had left his legacy of hate and wealth and\nevil--his own and his only son.\n\nShuddering, the man with the dead soul awoke from his dream, and\nbehold, he was lying in the desert where the gold tempted him from out\nof the great rocks and the diamonds shone in the sunlight. He looked\nat them not at all, but straightway he went to where good men sang the\n\"Miserere\" and were clad in brown robes. And as he went it came to\npass that his dead soul leaped in the joy of a new resurrection.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A DOLLAR\n\n\nI was born in a beautiful city on the banks of a charming river, the\ncapital of a great nation. Unlike humans, I can remember no childhood,\nthough it is said that I had a formative period in the care of artists\nwhose brains conceived the beauty of my face and whose hands realized\nthe glory of their dreams. But to them I was only a pretty thing of\npaper with line and color upon it. They gave me nothing else, and I\nreally began to live only when some one representing the Great Nation\nstamped a seal upon me. Though a bloodless thing, yet I felt a throb\nof being. I lived, and the joy of it went rioting through me.\n\nI remember that at first I was confined in a prison, bound with others\nby an elastic band which I longed to break that I might escape to the\nwelcoming hands of men who looked longingly at me through the bars.\nBut soon one secured me and I went out into a great, wide and very\nbeautiful world.\n\nOf the first months of my life I can remember but very little, only\nthat I was feverishly happy in seeing, and particularly in doing. I\nwas petted and admired and sought after. I went everywhere and did\neverything. So great was my popularity that some even bartered their\npeace of mind to obtain me, and others, forced to see me go, shed\ntears at the parting. Some, unable to have me go to them otherwise,\nactually stole me. But all the time I cared nothing, for I was living\nand doing--making men smile and laugh when I was with them and weep\nwhen I went away. It was all the same to me whether they laughed or\ncried. I only loved the power that was in me to make them do it and I\nbelieved that the power was without limit.\n\nI was not yet a year old when I began to lose my beauty. I noticed it\nfirst when I fell into the hands of a man with long hair and pointed\nbeard, who frowned at me and said: \"You poor, faded, dirty thing, to\nthink that I made you!\" But I did not care. He had not made me. It was\nthe Great Nation. Anyhow I could still do things and make even him\nlong for me. So I was happy.\n\nI was one year and a half old when I formed my first great partnership\nwith others of my kind, and it came about like this: I had been in the\npossession of a poor woman who had guarded me for a week in a most\nunpleasant smelling old purse, when I heard a sharp voice ask for\nme--nay, demand me, and couple the demand with a threat that my\nguardian should lose her home were the demand refused. I was given\nover, I hoped, to better quarters, but in this I was sadly\ndisappointed, for my new owner confined me in a strong but\nill-favored box where thousands like myself were growing mouldy and\nwrinkled, away from the light of day. Sometimes we were released at\nnight to be carefully counted by candle-light, but that was all. Thus\nwe who were imprisoned together formed a partnership, but even then we\nwere not strong enough to free ourselves. One night the box was opened\nwith a snap and I saw the thin, pale face of my master looking down at\nus. He selected me and ninety-nine of my companions and placed us\noutside the box.\n\n\"There's the money,\" he said, \"as I told you. It's all yours. Are you\nsatisfied now?\" I looked across the table at a young girl with a\nwhite, set face that was very, very beautiful. She did not answer.\n\n\"If you want it why don't you take it?\" he snarled at her. \"I can tell\nyou again that there is nothing else for you.\"\n\nThe girl had something in her hand that I saw. I see more than most\nmen. The thing she had made a sharp noise and spit a flame at him. He\nfell across the table and something red and warm went all over me. I\nbegan to be unhappy, for I thought I saw that there was something in\nthe world that could not be bought. For him I cared nothing.\n\nIt was strange that after my transfers I was at last used to pay the\njudge who tried the girl. I was in the judge's pocket when he\nsentenced her to death. He said: \"May the Lord have mercy on your\nsoul.\" But I knew, for I told you I could see more than most men,\nthat he didn't believe in the Lord or in souls. He left the court to\nspend me at a ----, but I think that I will not mention that shameful\nchange. There was nothing strange about my falling into the hangman as\npart of his pay. I had been in worse hands in the interim.\n\nI saw her die. Not a word did she say about the man she killed, though\nit might have saved her to tell of the mock marriage and the other\nthings I knew she could reveal. She thought it better to die, I\nsuppose, than be shamed. So she died--unbought. It made me still more\nunhappy to think of it at all. The dark stain never left me, but I\ncared nothing for that. What troubled was that I knew she wanted me,\nwas starving for what I could buy, but spurned me and died rather than\ntake me. There was something that had more power than I possessed.\n\nI made up my mind to forget, so my next effort was the greatest I had\nyet made--my partnership with millions of others. I traveled long\ndistances over and over again. I dug gold from the earth and so\nproduced others like myself. I built railroads, skyscrapers,\nsteamships and great public works. I disguised myself, in order to\nenhance my power, under new forms of paper and metal, coin, drafts,\nchecks, orders and notes. Indeed I scarcely knew myself when I\nreturned to the bill with the red stain upon it. My partners were\nnearly all with us one day when the master came in with a man and\npointed us out to him. The man shook his head. It was a great, massive\nhead, good to look at. My master talked a long time with him but he\nnever changed. Then he placed a great roll of us in his hand. He threw\nus down, kicked us, and went out without a look back. I was more\nunhappy than ever. He had spurned me, though I knew by his look that\nhe wanted me. I felt cursed. I had not much power at all. There was\nanother thing I could not buy.\n\nBut a curse came in good earnest two days later. The terror of that\nhas never left me. I saw a man die who loved me better than his honor\nor his God. He refused, dying, to give me back to the man from whom he\nhad stolen me. The priest who stood by his bed implored him. He\nrefused and the priest turned from him without saying the words of\nabsolution. When the chill came on him he hissed and spit at us, and\ncroaked his curses, but the death rattle kept choking them back into\nhim, only to have him vomit them into our faces again and again till\nhe died. The priest came back and looked at him.\n\n\"Poor fool!\" he said to him, but to me and my companions he said: \"YOU\nsent him to Hell.\"\n\nAh! What a power that was, but while I rejoiced in it I was not glad\nenough. He could have conquered had he only willed it. I knew he was\nmy master long before I mastered him.\n\nHis dissipated and drunken children fought for us beside his very bed.\nI was wrenched from one hand to the other, falling upon the dirty\nfloor to be trampled on again and again. When the fight ended I was\ntorn and filthy, so that, patched and ugly, my next master sent me\nback to the great capital to be changed; to have the artists work\nagain on me and restore my beauty. They did it well, but no artist\ncould give me new life.\n\nAgain I went forth and fell into the hands of a good man. I knew he\nwas good when I heard him speak to me and to those who were with me.\n\"God has blessed me,\" he said, \"with riches and knowledge and\nstrength, but I am only His steward. This money like all the rest\nshall be spent in His service.\" Then we were sent out, thousands of\nus, returning again and again, splitting into great and small parties,\nbut all coming and going hither and thither on errands of mercy.\n\nNow I felt my love of doing return. Never did I now see a tear that I\ndid not dry. Never did I hear a sigh that I did not change to a laugh;\nnever a wound that I did not heal; never a pain that I did not soothe;\nnor a care I did not lighten. Where the sick were found, I visited\nthem; where the poor were, I bought them bread. Out on the plains and\nin the desert I lifted the Cross of Hope and the Chalice of Salvation.\nTo the dying I sped the Minister of Pardon. Into the darkness and the\nshadow of death I sent the Light of love and hope and truth, till,\nrich in the deeds of mercy I did in my master's name, I felt the call\nto another deathbed--his own. I saw my companions flying from the\nbounds of the great earth to answer the call. They knew he needed them\nnow with the rich interest of good deeds they had won for him. Fast\nthey came and the multitude of them filled him with wonder. The enemy\nwho hated him pointed to them in derision. \"Gold buys hell, not\nheaven,\" he laughed, but we stood around the bed and the enemy could\nnot pass us. Then we, and deeds we did for him at his command, began\nto pray and the prayer was like sweetest music echoing against the\nvery vault of heaven; and other sounds, like the gentle tones of\nharps, were wafted over us, swelling louder and louder till all seemed\nchanged to a thousand organs, with every stop attuned to the praying.\nThey were the voices of the children from parts and regions where we\nhad lifted the Cross. One by one they joined the mighty music till on\nthe wings of the melody the master was borne aloft, higher and higher\nas new voices coming added of their strength. I watched till he was\nfar above and still rising to heights beyond the ken of dreams.\n\nAn Angel touched me.\n\n\"Be thou clean,\" he said, \"and go, I charge thee, to thy work. Thy\nmaster is not dead, but only begins his joy. While time is, thou shalt\nwork for him and thy deeds of good shall be his own. Wherever thou\nshalt go let the Cross arise that, under its shadow, the children may\ngather and the song find new strength and new volume to lift him\nnearer and nearer the Throne.\"\n\nSo I am happy that I have learned my real power; that I can do what\nalone is worth doing--for His sake.\n\n\n\n\nLE BRAILLARD DE LA MAGDELEINE[1]\n\n\nThis is the story that the old sailor from Tadousac told me when the\nwaves were leaping, snapping, and frothing at us from the St.\nLawrence, and over the moan of the wind and the anger of the waters\nrose the wail of the Braillard de la Magdeleine.\n\n\"You hear him? Every storm he calls so loud. I think of my own baby\nwhen I hear him, always the same, always so sorrowful. Poor baby!\n\n\"Yes, it is a baby. Across there you might see, but the storm darkens\neverything, yonder toward Gaspe, where the little mother\nlived--_pauvre mere_. She was only a child, innocent and good and\nhappy, when he came--the great lord, the _Grand Seigneur_, from\nFrance--came with the Commandant to Quebec and then to Tadousac.\n\n\"She loved him, loved him and forgot--forgot her father and\nmother--forgot the good name they gave her--forgot the innocence that\nmade her beautiful--forgot the pure Mother and the good God, for him\nand his love. She went to Quebec with him, but the Cure had not\nblessed them in the church.\n\n\"Then the baby came. That is the baby who cries out there in the\nstorm. The _Grand Seigneur_ killed the little baby, killed it to save\nher from disgrace, killed it without baptism, and it cries and wails\nout there, _pauvre enfant_.\n\n\"The mother? She is here, too, in the storm. She has been here for\nmore than two hundred years listening to her baby cry. Poor mother.\nThe baby calls her and she wanders through the storm to find him. But\nshe never sees, only hears him cry for her--and God. Till the great\nDay of Judgment will the baby cry, and she--_pauvre mere_--will pay\nthe price of her sin, pay it out of her empty mother heart and hungry\nmother arms, that will not be filled. You hear the soft wind from the\nshore battle with the great wind from the Gulf? Perhaps it is she,\n_pauvre mere_--perhaps.\n\n\"The _Grand Seigneur_? He never comes, for he died unrepentant and\nunpardoned. The lost do not return to Earth and Hope. He never comes.\nOnly the mother comes--the mother who weeps and seeks, and hears the\nbaby cry.\"\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Near the mouth of the St. Lawrence can be heard a sound\nlike wailing whenever there is a great storm. The people call it Le\nBraillard de la Magdeleine and countless tales are told concerning\nit.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS\n\n\nFrom Tadousac to the far-off Lake of Saint John the rock-bound\nSaguenay rolls through a mystic country, sublime in natural beauty,\nand alive with traditions, legends and folk-lore tales. Ghosts of the\npast people its shores, phantom canoes float down the river of\nmystery; and disembodied spirits troop back to earth at the dreamer's\ncall; traders, trappers, soldiers, women strong in love and valor,\nheroes in the long ago, and saintly missionaries offering up mortal\nlife that savages may know the Christian's God.\n\nBeauty, mysticism and music--music in all things, from the silver flow\nof the river to the soft notes of the native's tongue, and dominating\nall, simple faith and deep-rooted, God-implanted patriotism.\n\nSuch was French Canada, the adopted country of Deschamps the trapper,\na native of old France, who made his home in Tadousac while Quebec was\nyet a growing city; and, caring nothing for toil or hardship,\ngradually grew to be a _grand monsieur_ in the estimation of the\npeople about him. He loved his country well and, when war came, sent\nforth three sturdy sons to help repel the British foe. Many were the\ntears the patriot shed, because age forbade the privilege of\nshouldering musket and marching himself.\n\nWeary months dragged by before tidings came. Quebec had fallen. The\ngallant Montcalm had passed through the Gate of Saint John to a hero's\nrest, and two of the trapper's sons lay dead on the Plains of Abraham.\nThey had died bravely, as Deschamps hoped they would, with their faces\nto the foe, and with a whispered message of love to the old father at\nTadousac.\n\nAnd Pascal, the best beloved?\n\nPascal was--a traitor!\n\nThe blood of Deschamps in the veins of a traitor! Wife, daughter and\ngallant sons had been riven from him by death and the Christian's hope\nlightened the; mourner's desolation. But disgrace! Neither earth nor\nheaven held consolation for such wrong as his. Deschamps brooded on\nhis woe; alone he endured his agony, giving utterance to his despair\nin the words: \"France! Pascal! Traitor!\"\n\nYears passed and the trapper lived on, a senile wreck, ever brooding\non defeat, then breaking into fierce invective. Misery had isolated\nhim from his kind; the _grand monsieur_ was the recluse of Tadousac.\nOne day he disappeared from his lonely cabin and no one knew whither\nhe had gone.\n\nTreason had purchased prosperity for the recreant son. Wealth and\nhonors were his and an English wife, a haughty woman of half-noble\nfamily, who completed the work of alienation. Traitorous deed,\nkindred and race were all forgotten, and when the joy-bells rang for\nthe birth of an heir there was revel in the magnificent mansion of\nPascal Deschamps.\n\n\"Summon our friends,\" said the happy father. \"A son to the house of\nDeschamps! Let his baptism be celebrated as becomes the heir of\nwealth, power and position.\"\n\nSo heralds went forth from town to town, making known the tidings, but\nbore no message to the lonely grandsire in Tadousac.\n\n\"The curse is lifted!\" said the pious peasants, mindful of Pascal's\ntreason. \"A child at last! The good God has forgiven him.\"\n\nFrom Quebec to Malbaie came so-called friends, English who despised\nhis treachery, French who hated his name, but courtiers all; and with\nthem came an unbidden guest, an aged trapper, unshorn and roughly\nclad, who lurked in the shadows of the great hall, and whispered ever:\n\"France! Pascal! Traitor!\"\n\nBeautiful as an angel was the baby heir, fair with the patrician\nbeauty of his English mother, strong of limb as befitted the trapper's\ndescendant. Unconscious of the homage paid him, he slept in his\nnurse's arms, his baptismal robes sweeping the floor.\n\n\"A sturdy fellow, my friends,\" said his laughing sponsor. \"An English\nDeschamps.\"\n\n\"An English Deschamps!\" cried the English guests, pleased with the\nconceit. \"Long may his line endure.\"\n\n\"A traitor Deschamps!\" said a voice instinct with wrath. \"Unhappy man,\nyour taint is in him!\"\n\nThe revelers shrank back appalled, as from the shadows came the\nunbidden guest and stood among them, his mien majestic with the\ndignity of sorrow. Pascal alone recognized him and forced his ashen\nlips to speak the word: \"Father.\"\n\n\"Yes, your father, unhappy boy; unlettered, old and broken with the\nburden of your disgrace, but loyal still to God and country. I have\nguarded those great virtues well, for God gave them to me, and I would\nhave transmitted them to my posterity, and linked the name of\nDeschamps forever with patriotism and Faith. But your treachery has\ndestroyed my hope and smirched the memory of your brothers, whose\nnames are written on the roll of martyrs to their Faith and country.\nAh, Pascal, how I loved you! And your son? An English Deschamps you\nsay! A son born to perpetuate his father's degradation! No, Pascal, I\nshall save my honor! Your traitor blood shall never taint posterity.\nYou may live your life of misery, but you shall live it alone.\"\n\nAnd snatching the child from its nurse's arms the old trapper passed\nfrom the house and had reached his canoe before the stupefied revelers\nwere roused into pursuit. But they had no boats. The old trapper had\ndriven holes through the sides of every one but his own.\n\nWith swift strokes Deschamps paddled down the St. Lawrence, through\nthe rocky entrance to the Saguenay, and over its dark waters till a\nharbor was reached in a cleft of the coast. Here the madman landed,\nclimbed to the summit of the rock, and laying down the boy, kindled a\nfire of driftwood. \"I may see his face,\" he muttered. \"The last of my\nline! The English cross shows! The strain shows! I must wash it out!\nHush, my little one, thy grandfather guards thee; soon shalt thou\nsleep in my arms--arms that cradled thy father, and shall hold thee\nforever. I, who was ever gentle, who spared the birds and beasts, and\nsorrowed with the trapped beaver, will spare thee, too, my baby--will\nsave thee from thy father. Here where the wind speaks of freedom; here\nwhere the river even in its anger, as to-night, whispers peace; here\nwhere Deschamps worked and hoped; here where Deschamps sorrowed and\nmourned; here, little one, shall we rest together. Child, for you and\nme life means disgrace; the better part is death and freedom.\"\n\nA leap from the rock! The baptismal robes, fluttering white like\nangels' wings, dipped to the surface and disappeared. The race of\nDeschamps was ended. The black water of Saguenay was its pall, the\nstorm its requiem.\n\n\n\n\nTHE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE\n\n\nThe three men who sat together around the little library table of the\nRectory felt the unpleasant tension of a half-minute of dead silence.\nThe big burly one, with his feet planted straight on the carpet,\npassed his tongue over his lips and nervously folded and opened the\npaper in his hands. The tall young chap with creased trousers kept\ncrossing and re-crossing his legs. Neither of them looked at the young\npriest, who ten minutes before had welcomed them with a merry laugh\nand had placed them in the most comfortable chairs of his little\nbookish den, as cordially as if they were the best friends he had in\nthe world. Now the young priest looked old and the half-minute had\ndone it. He was just an enthusiastic boy when the contractor and\narchitect arrived; but he was a care-filled man now, as he sat and\nnervously passed a handkerchief over his forehead, to find it wet,\nthough the room was none too warm. He seemed to be surmounting an\nactual physical barrier when he spoke to the big man.\n\n\"I do not quite see, Mr. McMurray\" (it had been \"John\" ten minutes\nbefore), \"I do not quite see,\" he repeated anxiously, \"how I can owe\nyou so much. You know our contract was plain, and the bid that I\naccepted from you was six thousand eight hundred dollars.\"\n\n\"Yes, sur; yes, sur; it was, sur,\" answered McMurray with shifting\nembarrassment, \"but you know these other things were extras, sur.\"\n\n\"But I did not order any extras, Mr. McMurray,\" urged the priest.\n\n\"Yes, sur; yes, sur, you did, sur. I told you the foundations was\nsandy, sur, and that we had to go down deeper than the specifications\ncalled fur. It cost in labor, sur,\"--McMurray did not seem to be\nenjoying his explanation--\"fur diggin' and layin' the stone. Then you\nknow, sur, it takes more material to do it, sur. You said, yes--to go\nahead, sur.\"\n\n\"But you did not tell me it would cost more,\" urged the priest.\n\n\"No, sur; no, sur; I didn't, sur; but a child would know that. Now\nlook here at the plans.\"\n\n\"Just a minute, Mr. McMurray,\" broke in the architect, suavely. \"Let\nme explain. You see, Father, I was your representative both as\narchitect and superintendent of the building. I know that McMurray's\nbill of extras is right. I passed on them and everything he did was\nnecessary. There are extras, you know, on every building.\"\n\n\"But,\" said the priest, \"I told you I had only eight thousand dollars,\nand that the furnishings would take all over the amount called for by\nthe contract. You can not expect to get blood out of a stone. Here now\nyou say I must pay a thousand dollars more; but where can I get the\nmoney?\"\n\n\"Well, Father,\" said the architect, \"I don't think you will have to\nworry much about that. You priests always manage somehow, and you got\noff cheap enough. That church is worth ten thousand dollars, if it's\nworth a cent; and McMurray did you a clean, nice job. Now one thousand\ndollars won't hurt you; the Bishop will be reasonable and you will get\nthe money in a year or so.\"\n\n\"It looks as if I had to get it, somehow. I don't see how I can do\nanything else,\" answered the priest. \"This thing has sort of stunned\nme. Give me one month and let me do my best. I wish I had never\nstarted that building at all.\"\n\n\"Yes, sur; yes, sur,\" said McMurray quickly. \"You can have a month,\nsur. I am not a hard man, sur; but I've got to pay off me workers, you\nknow. But take the month, sur, take it--take it.\"\n\nMcMurray looked longingly at the door.\n\nAll three had arisen; but the priest's step had lost its spring as he\nescorted his visitors out.\n\nBoth of them were silent for the distance of a block away from the\nRectory, and then McMurray said:\n\n\"Yes, sur; yes, sur; I feel like ----.\"\n\n\"I do too,\" broke in the architect. \"I know what you were going to\nsay. He took it pretty hard.\"\n\nNot another word was spoken by either of them until the hotel was\nreached, and they had drowned the recollection of the young face, with\nthe look of age upon it, in four drinks at the bar.\n\nWhen the priest, with a slight look of relief, closed the door upon\nhis visitors and bolted it after them, he had perhaps seen a little\nhumor in the situation; but the bolting of the door was the only sign\nof it. His face was still grave when he stood, silent and stunned,\nstaring at the bill on the table.\n\n\"The good Lord help me,\" he prayed. \"One thousand dollars and the\nBishop coming in two weeks! What can I say to him? What can I do?\"\n\nHe pulled out a well thumbed letter from his pocket and read it to\nhimself, though he knew every word by heart.\n\n     \"DEAR FATHER RYAN,--I am pleased at your success, especially\n     that you built the church, as I told you to, without debt.\n     The congregation is too poor for any such burden. I will be\n     there for the dedication on the 26th.\n\n     \"And by the way. You may get ready for that change I spoke\n     of. I am as good as my word, and will not delay about\n     promoting you. The parish of Lansville is vacant. In a month\n     you may consider yourself its pastor. In the meantime, I\n     will look around to select one of the young men to take\n     your place and begin the work of building a house. God bless\n     you.\n\n     \"Sincerely yours in Christ,\n\n     THOMAS, _Bishop of Tolma_.\n\n\"All these years,\" whispered the young priest, \"all these years, I\nhave waited for that place. I meant to have a home and mother with me,\nand at least enough to live on after my ten years of sacrifice; but\none thousand dollars spoils it all. How can I raise it? I can not do\nit before the 26th and the Bishop will ask for my report. How can I\ntell him after that letter?\"\n\nHe dropped the letter over the contractor's bill and sat down, with\ndiscouragement written on every line of his face. He was trying to\nthink out the hardest problem of his life.\n\nThe town wherein Father Ryan had built his church had been for years\non the down-grade, so far as religion was concerned. There were in it\nforty indifferent, because neglected, Catholic families. They had just\nenough religion left in them to desire a little more, and they had a\ncertain pride left, too, in their Faith.\n\nFather Ryan builded on that pride. It was a long and arduous work he\nhad faced. But after ten years he succeeded in erecting the little\nchurch. His warnings to the architect had gone without heed; and he\nfound himself plunged into what was for him an enormous debt, just at\nthe time when promotion was assured.\n\nAll night long his problem was before him, and in the morning it was\nprompt to rise up and confront him.\n\nAfter breakfast the door-bell rang. He answered it himself, to find\ntwo visitors on the steps. One was a very venerable looking old\npriest, who had a kindly way about him and who laid his grip very\ntenderly on the floor before he shook hands with Father Ryan. His\ncompanion looked vastly different as he flung a little satchel into\nthe corner, and with a voice as big and hearty as his body informed\nhis host that both had come to stay over Sunday.\n\n\"Barry and I have been off for two weeks and we got tired of it,\" said\nFather Fanning, the big man. \"First vacation in ten years for both of\nus, but there is nothing to it. Barry got worrying over his school,\nand I got worrying over Barry, so there you are.\"\n\n\"But why didn't both of you go home?\" asked Father Ryan.\n\n\"Home! confound it, that's the trouble. I would give anything to go on\nthe other ten miles and get off the train at my little burg, and so\nwould Barry, for that matter; but we were both warned to stay away\nuntil Wednesday--reception and all that sort of thing. So now we are\ngoing to stay here.\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Father Ryan. \"I am glad to have you, but this\nis Saturday and to-morrow is Sunday, and--\"\n\n\"Now, now, go easy, young man, go easy. I simply won't preach. It is\nno use asking me. I am on a vacation, I tell you. So is Barry. He\nwon't talk, so I have to defend him. You wouldn't want a man to work\non his vacation, would you?\"\n\n\"Well, if you won't, you won't,\" replied Father Ryan, \"but you will\nsay the late Mass, anyhow? You'll have to do something for your\nboard.\"\n\n\"All right, I will, then. Barry can say his Mass in private, and you\nsay the first, yourself. Then you can preach as short and as well as\nyou can, which is not saying much for you.\"\n\n\"Well, seeing that it is Seminary Collection Sunday,\" interrupted\nFather Ryan, \"I won't lack for a subject.\"\n\nFather Ryan had a great weakness for the Seminary, which was entitled\nto an annual collection in the entire Diocese. He had studied there\nfor six years and, since his ordination, not one of his old professors\nhad been changed. Then he knew his obligations to the Seminary; he was\none of those who took obligations seriously. So Father Fanning was\nobliged, after hearing the sermon next day, to change his mind\nregarding his friend's ability to preach well. Father Ryan's discourse\nwas an appeal, simple and heartfelt, for his Alma Mater.\n\nHe closed it very effectively: \"I owe the Seminary, my dear friends,\"\nhe said, \"about all that I have of priestly equipment. Nothing that I\nmay ever say or do can repay even a mite of the obligation that is\nupon me. As for you, and the other Catholics of this Diocese, you owe\nthe Seminary for nine-tenths of the priests who have been successfully\ncarrying on God's work in your midst. The collection to-day is for\nthat Seminary. In other words, it is for the purpose of helping to\ntrain priests who shall take our places when we are gone. On the\nSeminary depends the future of the Church amongst you: therefore, the\nfuture of religion in your families. Looking at this thing in a\nselfish way, for the present alone, there is perhaps no need of giving\nyour little offering to this collection; but if you are thinking of\nyour children and your children's children, and the future of\nreligion, not only in this community but all over our State, and even\nin the Nation, you will be generous--even lavish, in your gifts. This\nis a poor little parish. We have struggled hard, God knows, to build\nour church, and we need every dollar we can scrape together; but I\nwould rather be in need myself than refuse this appeal. I am entitled\nby the laws of the Diocese to take out of the collection the average\namount of the Sunday collection. I would be ungrateful if I took a\ncent, so I don't intend to. Every dollar, every penny that you put\ninto this collection shall be sent to the Bishop for the Seminary; to\nhelp him educate worthy priests for our Diocese.\"\n\nAfter Mass, Father Fanning shook hands with the preacher.\n\n\"I feel ashamed of myself, Ryan,\" he said, \"that I never looked at\nthings in such a light before. That was a great appeal you made. My\ncollection is probably postponed until next Sunday, when I get home to\ntake it up; and I tell you I am going to use every bit of that sermon\nthat I can remember.\"\n\nFather Ryan had had little time to think over his troubles since his\ntwo friends arrived; but, somehow, they seemed to worry him now that\nthe sermon was off his mind. The one thousand dollar debt was weighing\nupon him even when he went to the door of the church to meet some of\nthe people.\n\nA stranger brushed past him--a big, bluff, hearty looking man, all\nbone and muscle, roughly dressed and covered with mud. There was a\ntwo-horse rig from the livery, at the curb. The stranger started for\nit; but turned back on seeing the priest.\n\n\"I am a stranger here, Father,\" he said. \"I have just come down from\nthe mountains, where I have been prospecting. I have to drive over to\nCaanan to get the fast train. I find that you have no trains here on\nSunday. I hadn't been to Mass for three months, for we have no place\nto go out there where I was; so it was a great consolation for me to\ndrop in and hear a good sermon. And I tell you it _was_ a good\nsermon. That was a great appeal you made.\"\n\nFather Ryan could only murmur, \"Thank you. You are not staying very\nlong with us?\"\n\n\"No, I can't stay, Father. I have to get to New York and report on\nwhat I found. I have about fourteen miles of mud before me now, and\nhave driven twenty miles this morning. I don't belong around here at\nall. I live in New York; but I may be here a good deal later, and you\nare the nearest priest to me. Take this and put it in the collection.\"\n\nThe rough man shoved a note into Father Ryan's hand. By this time they\nboth had reached the livery rig. A quick \"Good-bye\" from the visitor,\nand a \"God bless you\" from Father Ryan, ended the conversation.\n\nThe priest thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the house.\nWhen he entered the dining-room, Father Fanning was taking breakfast\nat the table. Father Barry was occupying himself with a book, which he\nfound difficulty in reading, on account of the enthusiastic comments\nof his friend on Father Ryan's sermon.\n\n\"We were talking about you, Ryan,\" he said. \"And there is no need of\ntelling you what we had to say about you; but there is one thing I\nwould like to ask. What's wrong with you since we came?\"\n\n\"Why, nothing,\" said Father Ryan. \"Haven't I treated you better than\nyou deserve?\"\n\n\"That is all right, that is all right,\" interrupted his big neighbor,\n\"but there _is_ something wrong. You were worried at first. Then you\ndropped it, but you started to worry again just as soon as you came\nout of the sanctuary. You were at it when we came in and you are at it\nnow. Come, Ryan, let us know what it is. If it is money, well--\"\n\nFather Barry looked up quickly from his book and said: \"Surely, it is\nnot the new church, is it?\"\n\nThe young pastor sat down in a chair at the table and looked at his\nfriends, before he spoke. \"Well, I never could keep a secret,\" he\nsaid. \"Therefore, I suppose I never will be a trusted counselor of\nanybody, and must always be seeking a counselor for myself.\"\n\n\"I always hate a man who can keep a secret,\" said Father Fanning. \"I\nalways believe that the fellow who can keep a secret is the fellow you\nhave to watch. You never know what he is thinking about, so nobody\never is sure of him. Don't be ashamed now of not being able to keep a\nsecret, and don't worry yourself by keeping this one. Out with it.\"\n\n\"Well, it is about the church,\" said Father Ryan.\n\nAnd he told his story.\n\n\"Well, of all the strange characters I ever met,\" said Father Fanning,\n\"you certainly are the worst, Ryan. Here you are in a box about that\nthousand dollars and yet this morning you gave away your own share of\nthe collection, besides booming the Seminary. Why man, the Seminary\nought not ask anything from you, in your present condition. But there\nis no use trying to pound sense into you. What are you going to do\nabout this? It is too much money for Barry and myself to take care of.\nBless your heart, I don't think he has fifty dollars to his name and I\nwouldn't like to tell you the state of my finances. We have to think\nout some way. Maybe Barry can see the Bishop.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll have to stop thinking about it,\" said Father Ryan. \"I\nmight just as well settle down where I am. I certainly will not get\nvery much of a promotion now. By the way, did you notice the big man,\ncovered with mud, in the church?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Father Fanning, \"I did not notice him. Who was he? What\nabout him?\"\n\n\"He was a stranger,\" said Father Ryan, \"and was very pleasant. He is a\nprospector from New York. He has been up in the mountains and away\nfrom church for the last three months. He must have found something up\nthere, because he is going on to New York to meet his backers; at\nleast, that is what I judged from his talk. He is driving over to\nCaanan to-day to catch the fast train.\"\n\n\"I wonder if he put anything in the collection?\" said Father Fanning.\n\n\"No, he did not,\" answered the pastor, \"but he gave it to me afterward\nand told me to put it in. By the way, here it is.\"\n\nHe pulled the note out of his pocket and laid it flat on the table.\nThe three men gasped for breath. It was a thousand dollars.\n\nFather Fanning was the first to find words. \"Great Scott, Ryan,\" he\nsaid, \"you ought to go out and thank God on your knees before the\naltar. Here is the end of your trouble. Why the man must be a\nmillionaire.\"\n\nFather Ryan's face was all smiles.  \"Yes,\" he said, \"it is the end of\nmy trouble. I never dreamed it would come to an end so easily. Thanks\nbe to God for it.\"\n\nThe little old priest with the book in front of him seemed to have no\ncomment to make. He let his two friends ramble on, both overjoyed at\nthe good fortune that had extricated Father Ryan from his dilemma. But\nhe was not reading. He was thinking. By and by he spoke.\n\n\"What did you say you preached on to-day, Father Ryan?\"\n\n\"Why,\" broke in Fanning, \"he preached on the Seminary. Didn't I tell\nyou! And a good sermon--\"\n\n\"Yes, I preached on the Seminary,\" said Father Ryan.\n\n\"But did I not hear Father Fanning say that you pledged every dollar\nthat came into the collection to the Seminary.\"\n\n\"Why, surely,\" said Father Ryan, \"but this did not come in through the\ncollection.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" persisted Father Barry, \"but did you not say that the strange\nman told you to put it into the collection?\"\n\n\"Why--yes--yes, he did say something like that.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" urged Father Barry, \"is it not a question to be debated\nas to whether or not you can do anything else with the money?\"\n\n\"Oh, confound it all, Barry,\" cried Father Fanning. \"You are a\nrigorist. You don't understand this case. Now there's no use bringing\nyour old syllogisms into this business. This man is in a hole. He has\ngot to get out of it. What difference is it if I put my money in one\npocket or in the other pocket. This all belongs to God anyhow. The\nthousand dollar note was given to the Church, and the most necessary\nthing now is to pay the debt on that part of it that's here. Why the\nSeminary doesn't need it. The old Procurator would drop dead if he got\na thousand dollars from this parish.\"\n\n\"Well, so far as I can see,\" said Father Barry, \"what you say does not\nchange matters any. Father Ryan promised every dollar--and every cent\nfor that matter--in that collection to the Seminary. This money forms\npart of the collection. I know perfectly well that most men would\nargue as you do, but this is a case of conscience. The money was given\nfor a specific purpose, and in my judgment, if Father Ryan uses it for\nany other purpose than the one for which it was given, he simply will\nhave to make restitution later on to the Seminary.\n\n\"That's an awful way of looking at things,\" said Father Fanning.\n\"Confound it, I am glad I don't have to go to you for direction. Why,\nits getting worse instead of better, you are. The giver of this money\nwould be only too glad to have it go to pay off the debt. What does he\nknow about the Seminary? He was attending the little church out here,\nand whatever good he got from his visit came through Father Ryan and\nhis people. He is under obligation to them first. Can't you see that\nit does not make any difference, after all. It is the same thing.\"\n\n\"No, it is not the same thing,\" said Father Barry. \"Perhaps we are too\nmuch tempted to believe that gifts of this kind might be\ninterchangeable. We are full of zeal for the glory of God at home, and\nthat means that sometimes we unconsciously are full of zeal for our\nown glory. Look it up. I may be wrong, and I do not want to be a\nkilljoy; but we would not wish our friend here to act first and do a\nlot of sorrowful thinking afterward.\"\n\nIt was Wednesday morning when the two visitors left, and the\ndiscussions only ended when the door closed upon them. There was not\na theological book in Father Ryan's library left unconsulted.\n\nWhen Father Fanning was at the door, grip in hand, he said: \"Well, I\nguess we have come to no conclusion, Ryan. You will have to finish it,\nyourself, and decide for yourself. But there is one thing I can\ntestify to, besides the stubbornness of my venerable friend here, and\nthat is that I have learned more theology out of this three-day\ndiscussion than I learned in three years previously. There is nothing\nlike a fight to keep a fellow in training.\"\n\nHis friends gone, Father Ryan went straight to his desk and wrote this\nletter to his Bishop:\n\n     YOUR LORDSHIP--I am sending herewith enclosed my Seminary\n     collection. It amounts to $1,063.10. You may be surprised at\n     the first figure; but there was a thousand dollar note\n     handed to me for that particular collection. I congratulate\n     the Seminary on getting it.\n\n     \"The church is ready for dedication as your Lordship\n     arranged.\n\n     \"Kindly wire me and I will meet you at the train.\"\n\nThen Father Ryan went to bed. He did not expect to sleep very much\nthat night; but in spite of his worry, and to his own great surprise,\nhe had the most peaceful sleep of all the years of his priesthood.\n\nThe church was dedicated. The Bishop, severe of face, abrupt in\nmanner, but if the truth were known, kindly at heart, finished his\nwork before he asked to see the books of the parish.\n\nFather Ryan was alone with his Lordship when the time for that ordeal\ncame. He handed the books to the Bishop and laid a financial statement\nbefore him. The Bishop glanced at it, frowned and then read it\nthrough. The frown was still on his face as he looked up at the young\npriest before him.\n\n\"This looks as if you had been practicing a little deceit upon me,\nFather Ryan,\" he said. \"You wrote me that the church was finished\nwithout debt.\"\n\n\"I thought so, my Lord, when I wrote you the letter. I had the money\non hand to pay the exact amount of the contract. The architect and the\nbuilder came to me later and informed me that there had been extras,\nof which I knew nothing, amounting to one thousand dollars. I am one\nthousand dollars behind. I assure your Lordship that it was not my\nfault, except that perhaps I should have known more about the tactics\nof the men I was dealing with. I will have to raise the money some\nway; and, of course, I do not expect your Lordship to send me to\nLansville. I am sorry, but I have done the best I could. I will know\nmore about building next time.\"\n\nThe Bishop had no word to say. Though the frown appeared pretty well\nfixed upon his face, it did not seem quite natural. There was a\ntwinkle in his eye that only an expert on bishops could perceive.\n\n\"But you sent me one thousand dollars more than I could have expected\nonly this week, for the Seminary,\" he said. That surely indicates that\nyou have some people here who might help you out of your dilemma.\"\n\n\"I am sorry, your Lordship,\" said Father Ryan, \"but it does not\nindicate that at all. I have no rich people. All of my people have\ndone the best they could for the new church. I will have to give them\na rest for a year and stay here and face the debt. The man who gave\nthe thousand dollar bill was a stranger--a miner. I do not know him at\nall. He did not even give his name, but said the money was for the\ncollection. I could not find any authority for keeping it for the\nchurch here, though, to be candid, I wanted to do it. That is all.\"\n\nThe Bishop still kept his eye on him. \"Of course you know that your\nappointment to Lansville was conditional.\"\n\n\"I understand that, your Lordship,\" said Father Etan. \"You have no\nobligation to me at all in that regard.\"\n\n\"Will you kindly step to the door and ask my Chancellor to come in?\"\n\nWhen the Chancellor entered, the Bishop said to him: \"Have you the\nletter I received from Mr. Wilcox?\"\n\nThe Chancellor handed the Bishop the letter, who unfolded it and,\ntaking another glance at the dejected young pastor, read it to him. It\nwas very much to the point.\n\n     \"DEAR BISHOP,--You may or may not know me, but I knew you\n     when you were pastor of St. Alexis in my native town. The\n     fact is, you baptized me. I would not even have known where\n     you were, had it not been for a mistake I made this morning.\n     I came down from the mountains and went to Mass at Ashford.\n     When I was going away I gave the young priest a thousand\n     dollar note. If you recognize my name, you will understand\n     that it was not too much for me to give, for though I am a\n     stingy sort of fellow, the Lord has blessed me with\n     considerable wealth. I remember saying to the young priest\n     that I wanted him to put it in the collection, which as I\n     remember now, was for the Seminary. I figured it out that he\n     would be sending the collection to you.\n\n     \"Now, I don't like to disappoint you, dear Bishop, but I did\n     not intend that money to go to the Seminary, but to the\n     pastor for the little parish. Later on, when developments\n     start in the mountains, and they will start when I get back\n     to New York, I may need that young priest to come up and\n     take care of my men; so I want the money to go to his\n     church, which, from what my driver told me coming over,\n     needs it. I may take care of the Seminary later on, for I\n     expect to be around your section of the country a great deal\n     in the future.\n\n\n     \"Respectfully yours,\n\n     \"PAUL WILCOX.\"\n\nThrough tear-dimmed eyes Father Ryan saw all the sternness go out of\nthe Bishop's face.\n\n\"Mr. Wilcox,\" said his Lordship, \"is a millionaire many times over. He\nis one of the largest mine operators in the world. He likes to do\nthings of this kind. You may go to Lansville, Father Ryan; but I\nthink, if I were you, I would stay here. When Wilcox says things are\ngoing to move, they usually do. Think it over and take your choice.\nHere is your thousand dollars. I do not find it a good thing, Father,\nto praise people; especially those I have to govern, so I am not going\nto praise you for what you have done. It was right, and it was your\nduty. I appreciate it.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE OCCASION\n\n\nMr. O'Brien of No. 32 Chestnut street had his entire family with him,\nas he hurried to the eight o'clock Mass. Mrs. O'Brien was already\ntired, though she had gone only a block from the house; for Elenora,\nwho always was tardy, had to be dressed in a hurry. Then Tom had come\ndown stairs with an elegant part to that portion of his hair which was\nright above his forehead, but the back section, which the mirror did\nnot show, was tousled and unkempt. It took an effort on Mrs. O'Brien's\npart to make the children presentable; and hurry plus effort was not\ngood for--well, for folks who do not weigh as little as they did when\nthey were younger.\n\nDr. Reilly met the O'Briens at the corner.\n\n\"Hello,\" he called, \"it's the whole family, bedad. What brings ye all\nto the 'eight o'clock'?\"\n\nMr. O'Brien answered his family doctor only when the children were\nleft behind where they could not hear: \"It's Father Collins' turn to\npreach at the High Mass, Doc,\" he explained.\n\n\"Sure, it is,\" said the Doctor. \"Faith, I forgot that. I was going to\nHigh Mass meself, but I ran over to see ye. Yes, it's his turn. Sure,\nthe poor man puts me to sleep, and sleepin' in the House of God is\nneither respectful nor decorous. But what is a man to do?\"\n\n\"He is the finest priest in the city,\" said Mr. O'Brien, looking back\nto see if his regiment was following, \"and the worst preacher. I can't\nsit still and listen to him. He loses his voice the minute he gets\nbefore the people, and some day I think he'll pull the pulpit down,\ntrying to get his words out. Faith, Doc, he makes me want to get up\nand say it for him.\"\n\n\"Well, O 'Brien, I believe you could say it, judging from the way you\nlecture us at the council meetings. And that brings me to the business\nI had when I ran off to see you. Couldn't you let the Missis take care\nof the children at this Mass? McGarvey wants to talk over something\nwith us. He's sick and can't get out. We'd both go to the 'nine\no'clock' and that will miss the sermon, too.\"\n\nMr. O'Brien nodded his head complacently. They had reached the front\nof the church, and whom should they meet but Father Collins hurrying\nout from the vestry on his way to the rectory across the street.\n\n\"Good morning, Father,\" cried the children in chorus, just as they did\nwhen one of the priests visited their room in the parochial school.\nThe two men touched their hats in greeting. Father Collins returned\nthe salute. He crossed the street quickly and ran up stairs to his\nown room in the rectory, but did not notice that O'Brien and the\ndoctor went past the church.\n\nBe it known that Father Collins was the third assistant. He had been\nordained one year. The first assistant, who was still fasting, with\nthe obligation of singing High Mass upon him, was installed in Father\nCollins' favorite chair, when the owner of it entered.\n\n\"Come in, come in, Collins, come in to your own house,\" the first\nassistant called. \"Come in, man, and be at home. I couldn't sleep, so\nI had to get up and wait around, hungry enough; but,\" he had caught\nthe expression on his friend's face, \"what is the matter?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing much, nothing much,\" replied Father Collins, \"only I see\nthe whole parish is turning out to-day for the eight o'clock Mass. The\nO'Briens and Doctor Reilly have just gone in. You know, they always go\nto High Mass.\"\n\n\"Which,\" remarked Father Grady, \"is no compliment either to my\nsinging, or your Eminence's preaching, or to both.\"\n\n\"Oh, your singing is all right,\" assured Father Collins.\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Grady, \"I accept the correction. I am a modest\nman, but I must acknowledge that I can sing--at least, relatively\nspeaking, for I haven't very much to compete against. However, if it\nis not my singing, then it must be your preaching.\"\n\n\"It is, it is,\" answered his friend, with just a touch of shakiness in\nhis voice. \"Look here Grady, you know I made a good course in the\nSeminary. You know I am not an ignoramus and you know that I work\nhard. I prepare every sermon and write it out; when the manuscript is\nfinished I know it by heart. Now, here is the sermon for to-day. Look\nat it and if you love me, read it. Tell me what is wrong with it.\"\n\nFather Grady took the papers and began to look them over, while Father\nCollins picked up a book and pretended to be interested in it. In\ntruth, he was glancing at his companion very anxiously over the top,\nuntil the manuscript had been laid down.\n\n\"My dear Collins, you are right,\" said Father Grady. \"It is a good\nsermon. I wish I could write one half as good. There is absolutely\nnothing wrong with it.\"\n\n\"But,\" urged Father Collins, \"I shall spoil it.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said his friend, \"candor compels me to acknowledge that you\nprobably shall. I don't know why. Can't you raise your voice? Can't\nyou have courage? The people won't bite you. You can talk well enough\nto the school children. You can talk well enough to me. Why can't you\nstand up and be natural? Just be yourself and talk to them as you talk\nto us. That is the whole secret.\"\n\n\"It is my nervousness, Grady,\" said Father Collins. \"I am afraid the\nminute I enter the church to preach. When I open my mouth, I lose my\nvoice out of fear. That is what it is--fear. I am simply an arrant\ncoward. I tell you, Grady, I hate myself for it.\"\n\n\"Now, look here,\" said his companion earnestly, \"you are not a coward.\nYou can preach. It is in you, and it will come out, yet. I call this\nsermon nothing short of a masterpiece. If you can not brace up now,\nthe occasion will come to loosen your tongue. It surely will.\"\n\n\"This is the worst day I have had,\" groaned poor Father Collins. \"I am\nshaking like a leaf, already. Look here, Grady, do me a favor just\nthis once. You preach so easily. You can get up a sermon in half an\nhour. You have nothing to do until half past ten. Now, let me go out\nand make the announcements and read the Gospel at the nine o'clock\nMass. Most of the children will be there and I can say a few words to\nthem. You preach at High Mass.\"\n\n\"Well, I ought not to do it,\" said Father Grady, thoughtfully, \"for if\nI do such things, it may spoil you. You ought not to give way,\nbut--you are white as a sheet, man. Well, I am going to do it this\ntime, so I had better look over something.\"\n\nFather Collins was overjoyed. He could not help it. He went to the\nchurch to prepare for the Mass and prompt to the minute he was in the\nsanctuary.\n\nThe Mass had proceeded as far as the end of the first Gospel, when the\nSacristan came to the priest's side and whispered a message. He was\nplainly excited, and trying hard to conceal it from the congregation.\nFather Collins leaned over to hear what he had to say.\n\n\"Keep your head, Father. There is a fire in the church basement now,\nright under your feet. The firemen are working on it, but can't put it\nout. We have stopped people from coming in to stampede the others. The\ngalleries are filled with the children, and we have to get them out,\nfirst. If there is a rush the children will be killed at the bottom of\nthe gallery stairs, where they meet the people from the body of the\nchurch out in that vestibule. The chief sent me to you to tell you to\ngo on preaching and hold the grown folks down stairs for ten minutes.\nThe firemen will get the little ones out without noise or fuss, if you\ncan keep the attention of the people. I'll whisper 'all right' to you\nwhen they are gone. Then you tell the rest to file out quietly. It is\nthe only chance you have to save those children in this ramshackle old\nbuilding, so you preach for all you are worth and don't let the people\nlook up at the galleries. There will be hundreds of little ones owe\ntheir lives to you, Father, if you can hold the fort.\"\n\nThe Sacristan left and, with a gasp of horror, the priest thought of\nthe galleries emptying into the little vestibule and meeting a rush of\nthe people from the church.\n\nFather Collins took off his chasuble and maniple and placed them upon\nthe altar. He wondered at his own coolness. He advanced to the front\nof the altar platform, opening his book; but he closed it again\ncoolly. Then, in a clear voice, that reached every corner of the\nbuilding, which he could not believe was his own, he began.\n\n\"On second thought, my friends,\" he said, \"I will not read the Epistle\nor the Gospel to-day. I have a few words to say to you, though a\nsermon is not expected at this Mass.\"\n\nIn a front pew Doctor Reilly and Mr. O'Brien groaned softly. They had\nbeen caught by the dreaded sermon.\n\nFather Collins announced his text. The congregation was surprised that\nit was to have a sermon instead of the usual reading, but it was more\nsurprised at the change in Father Collins; so much, indeed, that it\nwas almost breathless. The priest glanced up at the gallery, quickly,\nand saw that the children had begun to leave the rear pews. He had ten\nminutes to fill in. The people below could see only the front rows of\nthe gallery, which in this church, built in the old style, ran on\nthree sides. So Father Collins preached. It was the sermon he had\nprepared for the High Mass, but which he could not deliver. The\nbeauty of it had been plain to Father Grady when he read it; but it\nwas plainer to the enraptured congregation which sat listening to\nevery syllable. Neither the Doctor nor Mr. O'Brien attempted to sleep.\nIn fact there were no sleepers at all, for upright in the pews sat\nevery man and woman, hanging on the preacher's words.\n\nIn the midst of his discourse Father Collins detected the smell of\nsmoke and thought that all was lost. But he made another effort. His\nvoice rose higher and his words thundered over the heads of the\nastonished people, who were so rapt that they could not even ask\nthemselves what had wrought the miracle. If they smelled the smoke,\nthey gave no sign, for a born orator, who had found himself, held them\nin the grip of his eloquence. Father Collins took another glance at\nthe gallery. The front row would go in a moment. Above all, the people\nmust not be distracted now. Something must be done to hold their\nattention when the noise of the moving of that front row would fall\nupon their ears. In two minutes all would be well. That two minutes\nwere the greatest of the priest's life. Into them centered every bit\nof intensity, earnestness and enthusiasm he possessed. He rapidly\nskipped part of his sermon and came to the burst of appeal, with which\nhe was to close. The people could see him tremble in every limb. His\nface was as white as his surplice. His eyes were wide open and\nshining as if he were deeply moved by his own pleadings. He quickly\ndescended the steps of the altar and advanced to the railing. The\ncongregation did not dare to take its eyes away from him. The noise of\nthe departing children fell upon unheeding ears. The intensity of the\nman had been transferred to his listeners. A whispered 'all right'\nreached the priest from the lips of the Sacristan behind, and Father\nCollins stopped. His voice dropped back to the tone with which he\nbegan his discourse. It was a soft, musical voice, that people till\nnow did not know he possessed.\n\n\"My friends,\" he said, \"keep your seats for a moment. Those in the\nfront pews will go out quietly now. Let one pew empty at a time. Do\nnot crowd. There is no danger, at present, but a fire has broken out\nbelow, and we want to take every precaution for safety.\"\n\n\"Stop,\" he thundered, and his voice went up again. \"You, who are\nleaving from the center of the church, remain in your seats. Do not\nstart a rush. Do not worry about the children, they are all out. Look\nat the galleries. They are empty. The children were cool. Do not let\nthe little ones shame you. Now, give the old and feeble a chance.\"\n\nWith voice and gesture, he directed the movement of the people, and\nthen, the church emptied, he looked toward the vestry door. The\nSacristan was there.\n\n\"Hurry, Father,\" he called, tearing off his cassock. \"The floor here\nmay give way any moment. Father Grady has the Blessed Sacrament.\nHurry!\"\n\nThey were out before the floor fell and the flames burst into the big\nchurch, which, poor old relic of the days of wood, went down into the\nashes of destruction.\n\nMr. O'Brien of 32 Chestnut street walked home with Dr. Reilly, but\nneither of them had much to say. Both paused at the corner where their\nways parted.\n\nThen Mr. O'Brien spoke: \"What did you think of the sermon, Doc?\"\n\n\"I think,\" said the doctor, deliberately, \"that though it cost us the\nprice of a new church, 'twas well worth it.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE YANKEE TRAMP\n\n\nThey were old cronies, M. le Cure de St. Eustace and M. le Cure de\nSte. Agatha, though the priestly calling seemed all they had in\ncommon. The first was small of stature, thin of face, looking like a\nmediaeval, though he was a modern, saint; the other tall, well filled\nout like an epicure, yet not even Bonhomme Careau, the nearest\napproach to a scoffer in the two parishes, ever went so far as to call\nthe Cure of Ste. Agatha by such an undeserved name, since the good,\nfat priest had the glaring fault of stinginess which all the country\nknew but never mentioned. They loved him too much to mention his\nfaults. He was good to the sick and faithful to their interests,\nthough--\"_Il etait fort tendu, lui, mais bien gentil, tout de meme_.\"\nBesides, the Cure of St. Eustace was _too_ generous. Every beggar got\na meal from him and some of them money, till he spoiled the whole\ntribe of them and they became so bold--well there was serious talk of\nprotesting to the Cure of St. Eustace about his charities.\n\nThe garden of St. Eustace was the pleasantest place on earth for both\nthe cronies after Vespers had been sung in their parishes on Sunday\nafternoons, and the three miles covered from the Presbytery of Ste.\nAgatha to the Presbytery of St. Eustace. On a fine day it was\ndelightful to sit under the great trees and see the flowers and chat\nand smoke, with just the faint smell of the evening meal stealing out\nof Margot's kingdom. It was a standing rule that this meal was to be\ntaken together on Sunday and the visit prolonged far into the\nnight--until old Pierre came with the worn-looking buggy and carried\nhis master off about half-past ten. _\"Grand Dieu. Quelle\ndissipation!\"_ Only on this night did either one stay up after nine.\n\nWhat experiences were told these Sunday nights! Big and authoritative\nwere the words of M. le Cure de Ste. Agatha. Stern and unbending were\nhis comments and the accounts of his week's doings. And his friend's?\n_Bien_, they were not much, but \"they made him a little pleasure to\nnarrate\"--what he would tell of them.\n\nThis night they were talking of beggars, a new phase of the old\nquestion. They had only beggars in Quebec, mild old fellows mostly. A\nfew pennies would suffice for them, and when they got old there were\nalways the good Sisters of the Poor to care for them. There were no\ntramps.\n\n\"This fellow was different, _mon ami_,\" the Cure de St. Eustace was\nsaying, \"he would almost bother you yourself with all your experience.\nHe came from over the line--from the States, and he had a remarkable\nstory.\"\n\n\"_Bien oui_, they all have,\" broke in his friend, \"but I send them to\nMarie and she feeds them--nothing more. They can not trap me with any\nof their foolish tales. It is not charity to give to them. I am hard\nof heart about such things, and very sensible.\"\n\n\"Well, I will tell you about him. It will pass the time till dinner. I\nfound the man seated on the gallery in front. He spoke only English.\nWhen I came up he arose and took off his cap, very politely for a\nYankee too. But, God forgive me, I had no right to say that, for the\nYankees are as the _bon Dieu_ made them and they are too busy to be\npolite.\n\n\"'You are the priest?' he asked me.\n\n\"'Yes, Monsieur, I am.'\n\n\"'You speak English?'\n\n\"'Enough to understand. What is it?'\n\n\"'I am not a tramp, Father,'--he looked very weary and sad--'and it is\nnot money; though I am very hungry. You will give me something?\nThanks, but I want you to hear my story first. Yes, you can help--very\nmuch.'\n\n\"I gave him a seat and he dropped into it.\n\n\"'Father, do not be shocked if I tell you that I am just out of\nprison. I was discharged yesterday in New York and I lost no time in\ncoming here. This is not my first visit. I was here ten years ago with\nmy chum. We were burglars and we were running away after a big\noperation in New York. We had stolen $8,000 in money and valuables,\nand we had it all with us. We wanted to rest here in this quiet\nvillage till the storm would blow over. Among the valuables was a\nstrange ring. I had never seen anything like it and my chum wanted it\nfor himself, but we were afraid and took it to one of your\njewelers--right down the street to the left--Nadeau was his name--to\nhave it altered a little and made safe to wear. That little jeweler\nsuspected us. I saw it at once and we were alarmed. He informed the\nconstable of the ring matter. We were watched and then we saw that it\nwould be better to go. We feared that the New York police would learn\nof us, so we took the stuff out three miles in the country one dark\nnight and buried it. I know the spot, for it is near the old school\nwhere the road turns for Sherbrooke. Then we went West, to Michigan.\nWe broke into a store there and we were arrested, but New York heard\nof the capture and the Michigan authorities gave us up. We were tried\nand a lawyer defended us by the Judge's order. He got us off with ten\nyears in Sing Sing. I have been there till yesterday, as I told you.\nMy chum? Well, that brings me to it. Pardon me. I did not intend to\nbreak down. He is dead. He died well. A priest converted him, and my\nchum repented of his life and begged me to change mine when I got out.\nI am going to do it, Father. I am, so help me God. I'll never forget\nhis death. He called me and said: 'Bunky, that loot is worrying me.\nThe priest says that it must be returned if the owner or his heirs can\nbe found. If they can not it must be spent in works of charity.\nPromise me that you will go to St. Eustace and get it, Bunky, and give\nit back. Promise!'\n\n\"Then he broke down, _mon ami_, and I fear that I cried just a little\ntoo. It was sad, for he was a great strong man.\n\n\"When he could, he looked up and continued: 'Well, Father, I am here\nto do it. I want your help. May I have it?'\n\n\"I told him I would do what I could. He wanted me to take the money\nand give it to the owner. He would tell me his name. I was glad to aid\nthe poor man who was so repentant.\n\n\"'All I want is a pick and shovel and a reliable man to go with me\nto-night. I can find the place,' he said.\n\n\"I offered to send the sexton with him and let him have the pick and\nshovel from the cemetery. I gave him food and thanked God as I watched\nhim eat, that grace was working in his heart again.\n\n\"'I will wait for the man at seven to-night, Father,' he said when he\nwas leaving. 'Let him meet me with the horse and buggy just outside of\nthe town. If there is danger I will not see him, and he can return. I\nwill take the pick and shovel now, and bring the stuff to you in a\nvalise by 10 o'clock. Wait up for me.'\n\n\"He left and the sexton went to the road at seven, but did not see\nhim. At 10 o'clock I heard him coming. It was very dark and he knocked\nsharply and quickly, as if afraid. I opened the door and he thrust a\nvalise into my hand. It was heavy.\n\n\"'Here it is, Father. Keep it till morning when I will bring the key.\nThe valise is locked. Give me something that I may buy a night's\nlodging and I will come back at seven.'\n\n\"I gave him the first note in my purse and he hurried away.\n\n\"Now I fear, _mon ami_, that I never quite overcame my childish\ncuriosity, for I felt a burning desire to see all that treasure,\nespecially the strange ring. I must root out that fault before I die\nor my purgatory will be long. I went to the kitchen where I had a good\nchisel, and I am sorry to confess that I opened the valise just a very\nlittle to see the heap of precious things. There was an old cigar-box\nand something heavy rolled in cotton. I thrust the chisel down till I\nopened the box. There was no treasure in it at all, but just a lot of\niron-shavings. I felt that I had been fooled and I broke the valise\nopen. The heavy stuff rolled in the cotton was only a lot of old\ncoupling-pins from the railroad. I was disgusted with this sinner,\nthis thief. But it was droll--it was droll--and I could scarcely\nsleep with laughing at the whole farce. I know that was sinful. I\nshould have cried. But he was clever, that Yankee tramp.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"Mon Dieu! It was mine.\"]\n\n\"And the valise? What did you do with it?\" asked the hard-hearted Cure\nof Ste. Agatha, who must have felt sorry that the friend could be so\neasily duped. \"What did you do with the valise?\"\n\n\"I let it go. I knew that he had left it with me and I couldn't\nunderstand why. It was so good--almost new. I felt that the sight of\nit would make me hard to the poor who really were deserving. I wanted\nto forget how foolish I was, so I gave it to the good Sisters at the\nHospital, to use when they must travel to Sherbrooke.\"\n\nThe Cure of Ste. Agatha was agitated. He plainly wanted to speak but\nchoked back twice. Then he rose and looked at his friend with a face\nas red as fire, and started toward the gate. He took two steps, came\nback, and spoke rapidly. \"Do you think the Sisters will bring it back,\nthe valise? _Mon Dieu_! It was mine.\"\n\nTen miles from St. Eustace and thirteen miles from Ste. Agatha a\nYankee tramp was hurrying toward the parish of Ste. Catherine. He had\nthe money for one pick and one shovel in his pocket keeping company\nwith one note from the purse of the generous Cure of St. Eustace and\none of a much larger denomination, from the wise but hard-hearted\nCure of Ste. Agatha, who never gave to tramps.\n\nAnd this is the lesson of the story as the Cure of St. Eustace saw it:\nthat some gloomy and worried millionaires are lost to the States, to\nmake a few irresponsible but happy rascals who live by their wits, and\nwhose sins even are amusing. One must not blame them overmuch.\n\nAs to the Cure of Ste. Agatha. He has no opinions on the matter at\nall, for the Sisters gave him back his new valise.\n\n\n\n\nHOW FATHER TOM CONNOLLY BEGAN TO BE A SAINT\n\n\nIf you knew Father Tom Connolly, you would like him, because--well,\njust because Father Tom Connolly was one of the kind whom everybody\nliked. He had curly black hair, over an open and smiling face; he was\nbig, but not too big, and he looked the priest, the _soggarth aroon_\nkind, you know, so that you just felt that if you ever did get into\ndifficulties, Father Tom Connolly would be the first man for you to\ntalk it all over with. But Father Tom had a large parish, in a\ngood-sized country town, to look after; and so, while you thought that\nyou might monopolize all of his sympathy in your bit of possible\ntrouble, he had hundreds whose troubles had already materialized, and\nwas waiting for yours with a wealth of experience which would only\nmake his smile deeper and his grasp heartier when the task of\nconsoling you came to his door and heart.\n\nNow, there lived in the same town as Father Tom another priest of\nquite a different make. He, too, had a Christian name. It was Peter;\nbut no one ever called him Father _Peter_. Every one addressed him as\nFather _Ilwin_. Somehow this designation alone fitted him. It was not\nthat this other priest was unkind--not at all--but it was just that in\nFather Tom's town he did not quite fit.\n\nFather Ilwin had been sent by the Bishop to build a new church, and\nthat on a slice of Father Tom's territory, which the Bishop lopped off\nto form a new parish. Father Ilwin was young. He had no rich brogue on\nhis tongue to charm you into looking at his coat in expectation\nof seeing his big heart burst out to welcome you. He was\nthoughtful-looking and shy, so he did not get on well and his new\nchurch building grew very slowly.\n\nI have given you the characters of my little story, but, for the life\nof me, I can not tell you which one is to be the hero and which the\nvillain--but, let that go, for I am sure of one thing at least: this\nstory has no villain. But it followed just as naturally as day follows\nnight--for which figure of speech, my thanks to Mr. Shakespeare--that\nwhen Father Ilwin failed to do well, he grew gloomy and sad; and just\nas naturally--God help us--there was enough of human nature in Father\nTom to say, \"I told you so\" to himself, and to have him pity Father\nIlwin to others in that superior sort of way that cuts and stings more\nthan a whip of scorpions. Then, when Father Tom spoke to some of his\npeople of Father Ilwin's poor success and said, \"He meant well, good\nlad,\" they all praised the soft, kind heart of Father Tom; but when\nFather Ilwin heard of this great kindness he just shut his lips\ntightly, and all the blood was chased from his set face to grip his\nheart in a spell of resentment. Why? Oh, human nature, you know! and\nhuman nature explains a lot of things which even story-writers have to\ngive up. Of course, people _did_ say that Father Ilwin was ungracious\nand unappreciative; yet, as I write, much as I like Father Tom, I have\na tear in my eye for the lonely man who knew well that the only\nobstacle to his success was the _one_ that people never _could_ see,\nand that the _obstacle himself_ was never _likely_ to see.\n\nBut let us go on. Of all the things in this world that Father Tom\nbelieved in, it was that his \"parish rights\" were first and foremost.\nSo he never touched foot in his neighbor's parish, except to pay him a\nfriendly visit, or to go to his righteous confession. He visited no\nhomes out of his territory, though he had baptized pretty nearly every\nlittle curly-headed fairy in each. They were his no longer and that\nwas enough. He wanted no visitor in his limits either, except on the\nsame terms. So no one in Father Tom's parish had helped much in\nbuilding the church across the river. The people understood.\n\nIt had never occurred to Father Tom that his own purse--not _too_\nlarge, but large enough--might stand a neighborly assessment. No, he\nhad \"built his church by hard scraping, and that is how churches\nshould be built.\" Now, do not get a bad opinion of Father Tom on this\naccount. He thought he was right, and perhaps he was. It is not for me\nto criticize Father Tom, whom every poor person in the town loved as a\nfather; only I did feel sorry that poor Father Ilwin grew so thin and\nworn, and that his building work was stopped, and people did not seem\nto sympathize with him, at all, at all. Over in his parish there were\nopen murmurs that \"the people had built one church and should not be\nasked now to build another\"; or \"what was good enough for Father Tom\nwas good enough for anyone\"; or \"the Bishop should have consulted _us_\nbefore he sent this young priest into Father Tom's parish.\" In the\nother part of the town, however, everything was quiet enough, and none\nwould think of offending his pastor by showing any interest in Father\nIlwin, financially or otherwise. Father Ilwin said nothing; but do you\nwonder that one day when a generous gift was announced from \"the Rev.\nThomas Connolly, our respected fellow citizen,\" to help in the\nerection of a Soldier's Monument for the town, Father Ilwin read it\nand went back into his room, where, on the table, were laid out the\nplans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby?\n\n[Illustration: \"Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room,\nwhere on the table were laid out the plans of his poor little church,\nand cried like a baby.\"]\n\nIt happened that Father Tom rarely ever left his parish, which was\nagain much to his credit with the people. \"Sure, _he_ never takes a\nvacation at all,\" they said. But at last a call came that he could not\nrefuse, and, having carefully made his plans to secure a monk from a\nmonastery quite far away to take his place over Sunday, he left to see\na sick brother from whom he had seldom heard, and who lived far in the\nSouthwest. Perhaps it was significant, perhaps not--I do not know, and\nI do not judge--that Father Tom was particular to say in his letter to\nthe monastery that, \"as the weather is warm, the father who comes to\ntake my place need only say a Low Mass and may omit the usual sermon.\"\nIt was known that Father Tom did not care for preachers from outside.\nHe could preach a little himself, and he knew it.\n\nIt was a long and tiresome journey to the bedside of Father Tom's\ndying brother, so when the big, good-natured priest stepped off the\ntrain at Charton station in Texas, he was worn out and weary. But he\nsoon had to forget both. A dapper young man was waiting for him in a\nbuggy. The young lad had a white necktie and wore a long coat of\nclerical cut. Father Tom passed the buggy, but was called back by its\noccupant.\n\n\"Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said the priest in surprise.\n\n\"Then father is waiting for you. I am your nephew. Get in with me.\"\n\nFather Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction.\n\n\"You--you are a clergyman?\" he stammered.\n\n\"Oh, yes! Baptist pastor over in the next village. Father was always a\nRomanist, but the rest of us, but one, are Christians.\"\n\nIf you could only have seen Father Tom's face. No more was said; no\nmore was needed. In a few minutes the buggy stopped before the\nConnolly farm home and Father Tom was with his brother. He lost no\ntime.\n\n\"Patrick,\" said he, \"is that young Baptist minister your son?\"\n\n\"Yes, Tom, he is.\"\n\n\"Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died before she knew. 'Twill be no\nwarm welcome she'll be giving ye on the other side.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not, Tom. I've thought little of these things, except as to\nhow I might forget them, till now. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite\nright. But I did the best I could. I have one of the children to show\nher.\"\n\n\"How did _one_ stay?\"\n\n\"She didn't _stay_. She came back to the Faith. She was converted by a\npriest who was down here for his health and who was stationed in this\ntown for about a year. He went back North when he got better. I would\nnot have sent even for you, Tom, only _she_ made me.\"\n\nFather Tom felt something grip his heart and he did not speak for a\nlong minute. Then he took his brother's hand and said in his old boy\nlanguage: \"Paddy, lad, tell me all about it--how you fell away. Maybe\nthere was something of an excuse for it.\"\n\n\"I thought there was,\" said the dying man, \"but now all seems\ndifferent. When I came here first, I was one of the few Catholic\nsettlers, and I was true to my religion. I saw the other churches\nbuilt, but never went into them, though they tried hard enough to get\nme, God knows. But I was fool enough to let a pretty face catch me. It\nwas a priest from Houston who married us. She never interfered; and\nlater a few more Catholics came. The children were all baptized and we\ngot together to build a church. I gave the ground and all I had in the\nbank--one hundred and fifty dollars. We were only a few, but we got a\nthousand dollars in all. We could get no more, and money was bringing\ntwelve per cent, so we couldn't borrow. We had to give it all back and\nwait. Without church or priest, the children went to the\nSunday-schools and--I lost them. Then, I, somehow, seemed to drift\nuntil this priest came for his health. He got us few Catholics\ntogether and converted my best--my baby girl--Kathleen. She was named\nafter mother, Tom. We could only raise eight hundred dollars this\ntime, but the priest said: 'I'll go to my neighbors and ask help.' So\nhe went over to Father Pastor and Father Lyons, but they refused to\nhelp at all. They have rich parishes, whose people would be glad to\ngive something; but the priests said, 'No.' They thought helping was a\nmistake. It hurt our priest, for he could do nothing on eight hundred\ndollars. We needed only another five hundred. But that ended the\nstruggle. I say my beads and wait alone. Murphy and Sullivan went\naway. Keane died. His family are all 'fallen away.' My boy went to a\ncollege his mother liked--and you saw him. The others--except\nKathleen--are all Baptists. I suppose I have a heavy load to bear\nbefore the judgment seat, but Tom--Tom, you don't know the struggle it\ncost, and the pain of losing was greater than the pain of the fight.\"\n\nA beautiful girl came into the room. The sick man reached out his hand\nwhich she took as she sat beside him.\n\n\"This is Kathleen, Tom. He's your uncle and a priest, my darling. She\nsits by me this way, Tom, and we say our beads together. I know it\nwon't be long now, dearie, 'till you can go with your uncle where\nthere is a church and a chance to profit by it.\"\n\nFather Tom closed his brother's eyes two days later.\n\nHe left with Kathleen when the funeral was over. His nephew\naccompanied them to the train and said with unction:\n\n\"Good-bye, brother, I shall pray for you,\" and Father Tom groaned down\nto his heart of hearts.\n\nFather Ilwin was at the train when Father Tom and his niece arrived\nhome, though quite by accident. Kathleen's eyes danced when she saw\nhim and she rushed to shake hands. Father Tom said:\n\n\"Sure, I had no idea that you knew one another.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed, we do,\" cried the child. \"Why, uncle, it was Father\n_Peter_ who converted me.\"\n\nFather Tom heard, but did not say a word.\n\nIt was only three days later when Father Tom stood in the miserable\nlittle room that Father Ilwin called his library. On the table still\nreposed the plans of the new church, but no sound of hammer was heard\noutside. Father Tom had little to say, but it was to the point. He had\nprofited by his three days at home to think things out. He had arrived\nat his conclusions, and they were remarkably practical ones.\n\n\"Ilwin, me lad, I don't think I've treated ye just as a priest and\nChristian should--but I thought I was right. I know now that I wasn't.\nIlwin, _we_ can build that church and _we will_. Here are a thousand\ndollars as a start to show that I mean it. There'll be a collection\nfor you in St. Patrick's next Sunday. After that I intind going about\nwith ye. I think I know where we can get some more.\"\n\nThen and there Father Tom Connolly began to be a Saint.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNBROKEN SEAL\n\n\nThe priest ran right into a mob of strikers as he turned the corner of\nthe road leading from the bridge over the shallow, refuse-filled Mud\nRun, and touched foot to the one filthy, slimy street of the town. He\nwas coming from the camp of the militia, where he had been called to\nadminister the last Sacraments to a lieutenant, whom the strikers had\nshot down the night before.\n\nSlevski was haranguing the mob and his eye caught that of the priest\nwhile he was in the midst of an impassioned period, but a look of hate\nalone showed that he had seen him. Only a few of the people in the\nrear of the crowd noticed the priest's presence at all. He was glad\nenough of that, for suspicion was in the air and he knew it. Right in\nhis way was Calvalho, who had been one of his trustees and his very\nbest friend when he first came to the parish. It looked now as if he\nhad no longer a friend in all the mud-spattered, bare and coal-grimed\ntown. Calvalho returned his salute with a curt nod. The priest caught\na few words of Slevski's burning appeal to hatred and walked faster,\nwith that peculiar nervous feeling of danger behind him. He quickened\nhis steps even more for it.\n\n\"Company--oppressors of the poor--traitors\"; even these few words,\nwhich followed him, gave the priest the gist of the whole tirade.\n\nThe women were in the crowd or hanging about the edges of it. A crash\nof glass behind him made the priest turn for an instant, and he saw\nthat Maria Allish had flung a stone through the bank window. She had a\nshawl quite filled with large stones. With the crash came a cheer from\nthe crowd around Slevski, who could see the bank from their position\nin front of the livery stable.\n\nA soldier almost bumped into the priest, as he came running down the\nstreet, gun in hand, followed by half a dozen others. One of them\nsaluted. \"Bad business, Father,\" he said. \"Will the lieutenant live?\"\n\n\"I am afraid he will not,\" answered the priest.\n\n\"They will surely burn down the company's buildings,\" said the\nsoldier. \"God! There they go now.\" And the soldier hurried on.\n\nLater the priest watched the red glow from his window. It reminded him\nof blood, and he shuddered.\n\nHis old housekeeper called him to his frugal supper.\n\n\"I can not go out much now,\" he said to her. \"I am a Pole. What could\na Pole do with these Huns who have no sympathy with him, or the\nItalians whose language he can not speak?\"\n\nHe wondered if he were a coward. Why should he discuss this with his\nservant?\n\n\"Slevski,\" she said, \"makes the people do what he wants. He cursed me\non the street this morning.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the priest, \"he speaks in curses. He has never tried to\nspeak to God, so he has never learned any other language; and these\nmen are his property now.\"\n\n\"There will be no one at Mass next Sunday,\" said the old housekeeper.\n\"Even the women won't come. They think you are in league with the\nsoldiers.\"\n\n\"Never mind, Judith,\" said the priest, \"at heart they are good people,\nand this will pass away. The women fear God.\"\n\n\"They fear God sometimes,\" said Judith, \"but now they fear Slevski\nalways.\"\n\nThe priest said nothing in reply. He was here the patient Church which\ncould wait and does not grow old.\n\nAfter his meal, he again stood at the window to watch the red glow of\nthe burning buildings. He heard shots, but he knew that it would be\nuseless to interfere. He waited for some one to come and call him to\nthe dying; for he feared people had been hurt, else why the shots?\n\nA knock sounded on the door. He opened it, and a woman entered. The\npriest knew her well, by sight, and wondered, for she was Slevski's\nwife. She was not of these people by race, nor of his own. She was\nEnglish-speaking and did not come to church. Slevski had married her\nthree years before in Pittsburgh. She looked frightened as he waited\nfor her to speak.\n\n\"Tell me,\" she began very rapidly, is it true that no single word of a\nconfession may ever be revealed by the priest?\"\n\n\"It is true,\" he answered.\n\n\"Even if he were to die for it?\" she urged.\n\n\"Even if he were to die.\"\n\nThe priest's eyes wore a puzzled expression, but she went on:\n\n\"May he even not betray it by an action?\"\n\n\"Not even by an action.\"\n\n\"Even if he died for it?\" Her voice was full of anxiety.\n\n\"Even then.\"\n\n\"I wish to confess,\" she said. \"May I do it, here? I will kneel\nafterward, if necessary, but I can tell it better here--and I must do\nit quickly.\"\n\n\"It will take only a minute if we go to the church,\" he answered. \"It\nis irregular to hear your confession outside of the proper place,\nunless in case of illness.\"\n\n\"Then let us go,\" she said, \"and hurry.\"\n\nThey entered the church, and she knelt on the penitent's side of the\nconfessional. Later she told all that had happened.\n\n\"What troubles you?\" asked the priest. \"Have you been to confession of\nlate?\"\n\n\"Three years ago,\" and she shuddered, \"I was to confession. It was\nbefore I married him, never since. Yes, yes, I ought to be known to\nyou. Listen now, for there isn't very much time.\" He bent his head and\nsaid: \"I am listening.\"\n\nShe went on without taking breath. \"They are going to murder you. I\nheard it, for I was in the secret. I consented to summon you, but I\ncould not. They charged that you were in the company's pay and working\nagainst the men. One of them will come to-night and ask you to go on a\nsick-call. They intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run. I had\nto warn you to prepare. I could not see you killed without--without a\nprayer. It is too cruel. Do what you can for yourself. That's all I\ncan say.\"\n\n\"It is very simple,\" said the priest. \"I need not go.\"\n\n\"Then they will know that I told you,\" she answered breathlessly. Her\neyes showed her fright.\n\n\"You are right,\" said the priest. \"I fear that it would violate the\nSeal if I refused to go.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said, \"and he would know at once that I had told, and\nhe--he suspects me already. He may have followed me, for I refused to\ncall you. If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to you. I\nam not ready to die--and he would kill me.\"\n\n\"Then do not trouble your mind about it any more. God will take care\nof me,\" said the priest. \"Finish your confession.\"\n\nIn ten minutes she had left. The priest was alone with himself, and\nhis duty. Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski--and he\nknew that the woman had been followed.\n\nHe sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wide\nopen eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred. Then he went back\nto the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary and\nfinished his daily office. He laid the book down on the arm of his\nchair, went to his desk and wrote a few lines, sealed them in an\nenvelope and left it addressed on the blotter. He was outwardly calm,\nbut his face was gray as ashes. His eyes fell upon the crucifix above\nhis desk and he gave way in an instant, dropping on his knees before\nit. The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse and\nwhispering:\n\n\"Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it. I am young. Have pity\non me. I am not strong enough to be so like You.\"\n\nThen he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he did\nnot go. Perhaps Slevski had not suspected his wife at all--but had\nthe priest not seen him outside the church?\n\nThe sweat was over his face, and he walked to the door to get a breath\nof air. The priest knew there was no longer even a lingering doubt as\nto what he should do. He went back to the church, and, before the\naltar, awaited his call.\n\nIt was not long in coming. The old housekeeper appeared in half an\nhour to summon him.\n\n\"Kendis is in the house. He lives on the other side of the Run. It is\nfor his wife, who is sick, that he comes. She is dying.\"\n\nThe priest bowed and followed the old servant into the house, but\nKendis had left.\n\nThe priest looked at his few books and lovingly touched some of his\nfavorites. His reading chair was near. His eyes filled as he looked at\nit, with the familiar breviary on its wide arm. The crucified Christ\ngazed down from His cross at him and seemed to smile; but the priest's\neyes swam with tears, and a great sob burst from him. He opened the\ndoor, but lingered on the threshold. When he passed out on the street\nhis walk was slow, his lips moving, as he went along with the step of\na man very weary and bending beneath the weight of a Great Something.\n\nThe people did not know then that their one dark and muddy street was\nthat night a Via Dolorosa; that along it a man who loved them dragged\na heavy Cross for their sake; that it ended for him, as had another\nsorrowful way ended for his Master, in a cruel Calvary.\n\nSlevski told the whole story before the trap of the gallows was\nsprung.\n\n\n\n\nMAC OF THE ISLAND\n\n\nWhen the \"Boston Boat\" drew near Charlottetown I could see Mac waving\nme a welcome to the \"Island\" from the very last inch of standing space\nupon the dock. When I grasped his hard and muscular hand fifteen\nminutes later, I knew that my old college chum had changed, only\noutwardly. True, the stamp of Prince Edward Island, which the natives\ncall \"the Island,\" as if there were no other, was upon him; but that\nstamp really made Mac the man he was. The bright red clay was over his\nrough boots. Could any clay be redder? It, with his homespun clothes,\nmade the Greek scholar look like a typical farmer.\n\nWe had dinner somewhere in the town before we left for the farm. It\nwas a plain, honest dinner. I enjoyed it. Of course, there was meat;\nbut the mealy potatoes and the fresh cod--oh, such potatoes and\ncod--were the best part of it. I then and there began to like the\nIsland for more reasons than because it had produced Mac.\n\nWe drove out of town, across the beautiful river and away into the\ncountry, along red clay roads which were often lined with spruce, and\nalways with grass cropped down to a lawnlike shortness by the sheep\nand kept bright green by the moisture.\n\n\"You must enjoy this immensely, you old hermit,\" I said to Mac, as the\nbuggy reached the top of a charming hill, overlooking a picture in\nwhich the bright green fields, the dark green spruce, the blue sky and\nthe bluer waters were blended.\n\n\"Yes, I do,\" replied Mac. \"This is Tea Hill. You know I think if I\nwere in Africa but wanted to write something about home, I could close\nmy eyes, think of red and green slopes and blue waters and the smell\nof haymaking, and have the atmosphere in an instant. Just look at\nthat,\" he pointed toward the water. \"We call it Pownal Bay. Do you see\nhow it winds in and out everywhere among the spruce and the fields.\nThen look off in the distance. That is Hillsboro Bay. You passed\nthrough it this morning. Do you see the little islands out there? One\nis called St. Peter's and the other is called Governor's. It is a\nfunny thing, but every man, woman and child on the Island knows them\nby name, yet I could wager a farm that not one in a thousand has ever\nset foot upon them. But it is a grand scene, isn't it, Bruce?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" I replied. \"It is a grand scene, Mac, and--\" But Mac\nturned to salute a gentleman wearing a silk hat who was passing in a\nbuggy.\n\n\"Good morning, Doctor,\" he called. The doctor bowed with what looked\nlike gracious condescension.\n\nMac turned to me again. \"What were you saying, Bruce? Oh, yes, that I\nmust love it. Why, of course I do. Wasn't I born here? By the way,\nthat chap who passed us is Franklin, Doctor Franklin. He is head of a\ncollege in Charlottetown. Prince of Wales they call it. It is a very\nimportant part of Island life.\"\n\n\"But I do not think, Mac,\" I suggested, \"that he was quite as\nfraternal in his greeting as I might have expected him to be.\"\n\n\"Oh, he does not know me, except as a farmer,\" said Mac quickly. \"In\nfact, nobody around here does. You see, Bruce, I am just plain Alec\nMcKinney, who went to Boston when a young fellow--you know that\nBoston, Bruce, is another name for the whole United States, on this\nIsland--and who came back a fizzle and a failure to work his father's\nfarm. But say, Bruce,\" and Mac turned to me very quickly, \"what\nbrought you here, anyhow? I wager there is a reason for the visit.\nNow, own up.\" He stopped the buggy right in the middle of the road and\nlooked me in the face. \"Surely,\" he went on, \"you would not have\nthought of coming to the Island just to gossip about old times.\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps I would, Mac. In fact, I am glad I came,\" I answered,\n\"but you guess well, for this time I was sent.\"\n\nMac interrupted me with a ring of joy in his voice: \"You were sent?\nGood! I am glad. Now, out with it.\"\n\n\"Well, I am glad if it pleases you, Mac, for it looks as if I had a\nchance to get you.\"\n\n\"Get me?\" Mac grew grave again.\n\n\"Yes, the old place wants you--for Greek, Mac. We need you badly. Old\nChalmers is dead. His place is vacant. No one can fill it better than\nthe best Greek scholar the college ever produced. Mac, you must come,\nand I must bring you home. You know the old college is home for you.\nYou can't fool me, Mac. You love it better even than this.\" And I\nwaved my hand toward the bay.\n\nMac's face showed emotion. I expected it would. I had prepared for the\ninterview, and I knew Mac. I thought I had won; but he changed the\nconversation abruptly.\n\n\"Look over there, Bruce,\" and he pointed with his whip toward the\ndistance. \"Away off on the other side of the Island is where Schurman\nof Cornell was born. There are lots of such men who come from around\nhere. Down in that village is the birthplace of your Secretary of the\nInterior. These people, my people, worship God first and learning\nnext. They are prouder of producing such men than they are of the\nIsland itself, and to use student language, that is 'going some.'\"\n\n\"Yes, I suppose you are right, Mac,\" I answered, not quite seeing why\nhe had thrown me off, \"but they do not seem to know _you_.\"\n\n\"No,\" he answered quickly. \"they do not, and I do not want them to. It\nwould frighten them off. It would require explanations. What\ndifference if I have six letters after my name? To these people,\nworshiping what I know rather than what I am, I would not be Alec any\nmore.\"\n\n\"But Mac, you will come back now, won't you! The college wants you;\nyou mustn't refuse.\"\n\nThere was still more emotion in Mac's voice, when he answered: \"Bruce,\nold man, don't tempt me. You can not know, and the faculty can not\nknow. You say I ought to love all this and I do; but not with the love\nI have for the old college, though I was born here. Can you imagine\nthat old Roman general, whom they took away from his plow to lead an\narmy, refusing the offer but keeping the memory of it bright in his\nheart ever after? That is my case now, old man. There is nothing in\nthis world I would rather have had than your message, but I must\nrefuse the offer.\"\n\n\"Now Mac,\" I urged, \"be reasonable. There is nothing here for you.\nScenery won't make up.\"\n\n\"Don't I know it?\" and Mac stopped the buggy again. \"Don't I know it?\nBut there is something bigger to me here than the love of the things\nGod made me to do--and he surely made me for Greek, Bruce. Do not\nthink I am foolish or headstrong, I long for my work. But Bruce, if\nyou can not have two things that you love, all you can do is to give\nup one and go on loving the other, without having it. That's my fix,\nBruce.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mac, but are you sure you realize what it means to you?\" I began\nurging, because I knew that I would soon have to play my trump card.\n\"Here you are, a grayhead at thirty-five, without a thing in life but\nthat farm, and you--heavens, Mac, don't you know that you are one of\nthe greatest Greek scholars in the world? Don't you think you owe the\nworld something? What are you giving? Nothing! You have suppressed\neven the knowledge of what you are from the people around you. You get\na curt nod from the head of a little college. These people call you\nAlec, when the whole world wants to call you Master. You are doing\nwork that any farm hand could do, when you ought to be doing work that\nno one can do as well as yourself. Is this a square deal for other\npeople, Mac? Were you not given obligations as well as gifts?\"\n\n\"Yes, Bruce.\" Mac said it sadly. \"There's the rub. I was given\nobligations as well as gifts, and I am taking you home with me now,\ninstead of threshing this out in the hotel at Charlottetown, because I\nwant you and you alone to realize that I am not just a stubborn\nIslander. And there is home.\"\n\nHe pointed to a cottage in the field. The cottage was back from the\nroad nearly a quarter of a mile. Mac opened the gate, led the horse\nthrough it, closed it again and climbed back into the buggy beside me.\nThere were tears in his brown eyes.\n\n\"Is every one well?\" said Mac hesitatingly. \"Is everybody well--I mean\nof the people I knew best back there?\" he asked. I knew what he meant.\n\n\"Yes, Mac, _she_ is well,\" I said, \"and I know she is waiting.\"\n\nI had played my \"trump card,\" but Mac was silent.\n\nThe farm was typical of the Island. The kitchen door opened directly\non the farmyard, and around it, at the moment, were gathered turkeys,\nducks, geese and chickens. Mac brought me to a little gate in the\nflower-garden fence, and, passing through it, we walked along the\npathway before the house, so that I could enter through the front door\nand be received in the \"front room.\" Island opposition to affectation\nor \"putting on,\" as the people say, forbade calling this \"front room\"\na parlor. No one would think of doing such a thing, unless he was\nalready well along the way to \"aristocracy.\" One dare not violate the\nunwritten Island law to keep natural and plain.\n\nI noticed that when Mac spoke to me he used the cultured accents of\nthe old college; but before others he spoke as the Islanders\nspoke--good English, better English than that of the farmers I knew,\nbut flat--the extremity of plainness. I could not analyze that Island\nbrogue. It sounded like a mixture of Irish and Scotch, unpleasant only\nbecause unsoftened. But you could scarcely call it brogue. It struck\nme as a sort of protest against affectation; as the Islander's way of\nexplaining, without putting it in the sense of the words, that he does\nnot want to be taken at a false valuation. The Island brogue is a\nnotice that the user of it meets you man to man. So it reflected Mac,\nand it reflected his people, unspoiled, unvarnished, true as steel,\nfull of rigid honesty; but undemonstrative, with the wells of\naffection hidden, yet full to the top, of pure, bright, limpid water.\n\nThe \"front room\" had a hand-woven carpet on the floor, made of a\nmaterial called \"drugget.\" A few old prints, in glaring colors, were\non the walls. There was a Sacred Heart and an odd-looking picture of\nthe dead Christ resting in a tomb, with an altar above and candles all\naround it. It was a strange religious conceit. On another wall was a\ncoffin plate, surrounded with waxed flowers and framed, with a little\nphotograph of a young man in the center of the flowers. The chairs\nwere plain enough, but covered with a coarse hand-made lace. It was\nnot Mac's kind of a room, at all. It made me shudder and wonder how\nthe scholar who loved his old book-lined college den and knew the old\nmasters, could even live near to it.\n\nMac came in very soon, leading an old lady, who walked with a cane.\nShe was bent and wrinkled with age. I could see that she was blind.\nShe had a strange-looking old shawl, the like of which I had only a\nvague recollection of seeing as a boy, about her shoulders; and on her\nhead was a black cap with white ruching around her face.\n\n\"My mother, Bruce,\" he said, very simply.\n\nAs I took the old lady's hand, he said to her: \"This is my old friend,\nProfessor Bruce, mother. He has come all the way from New York to see\nme. I'll leave you together while I go to see sister. Sister has been\nbedridden for years, Bruce.\"\n\nThe old lady was too much embarrassed to speak. Mac smiled at me as he\nled her to a chair and said: \"Bruce does not look like a professor,\nmother. He just looks like me.\"\n\nI could see all the Island respect for learning in the poor old lady's\ndeference. Mac left us, and his mother asked if I would not have some\ntea. I refused the tea, giving as excuse that it was so close to the\nhour of the evening meal.\n\n\"So, you knew my son at college?\" said the mother.\n\n\"I knew him well, Mrs. McKinney. He was my dearest friend.\"\n\nThe old lady began to cry softly.\n\n\"I am so sorry,\" she said, \"that he failed in his examinations, and\nyet, I ought to be glad, I suppose, for it is a comfort to have him.\nEllie is a cripple and without Alec what would we do? Of course, if\nhe hadn't failed, I couldn't hope to keep him, so it is better,\nperhaps, as it is. But he was such a smart boy and so anxious to get\non. It was a great disappointment to him; and then, of course, none of\nus liked to have the neighbors know that the boy was not cut out for\nsomething better than a farmer. But you must have liked him, when you\ncame all the way from New York to see him.\"\n\nI began to understand.\n\nThat night I thought it all out in my little room, with the flies\nbuzzing around me and the four big posts standing guard over a feather\nbed, into which I sank and disappeared. I was prepared to face Mac in\nthe morning.\n\nHe had already done a good day's work in the fields, before I was up\nfor breakfast, so we went into the garden to thresh it out.\n\n\"Mac,\" I said severely, \"did you tell your mother and sister and the\npeople around here that you had failed in your examinations?\"\n\n\"Well, Bruce,\" he said haltingly, \"I did not exactly tell them that,\nbut I let them think it.\"\n\n\"Good Lord!\" I thought, \"the man who easily led the whole college.\"\nBut aloud: \"Did you tell them you had no career open to you in New\nYork?\"\n\n\"Well, Bruce, I had to let them think that, too.\"\n\n\"And you did not tell them, Mac, of the traveling scholarship you won,\nor the offers that Yale made you?\"\n\n\"Oh, what was the use, Bruce?\" said Mac desperately. \"I know it was\nwrong, but it was the only way I saw. Look here. When I got back home,\nwith all these letters after my name and that traveling scholarship to\nmy credit, I found sister as I told you she was--you'll see her\nyourself this morning, poor girl--and mother blind. Brother, the best\nbrother that ever lived--it is his picture they have in that hideous\nframe in the front room--died two months before I graduated. Bruce,\nthere was no one but me. If I had told the truth, they would not have\nlet me stay. They would have starved first. Why, Bruce, sister never\nwore a decent dress or a decent hat, and mother never had that thing\nthat every old lady on the Island prizes, a silk dress, just because\nshe saved the money for me. I told you that these people worship\nlearning after God.\" He put his hand to his eyes. \"Bruce, I am lonely.\nI have grown out of the ways of my people. But you wouldn't ask me to\ngrow out of a sense of my duty too?\"\n\n\"No, I don't want you to come with me, Mac,\" I said. \"I am going back\nalone. When you are free, the college is waiting. She can be as\ngenerous as her son, and, I hope, as patient.\"\n\nMac drove me back over Tea Hill and looked with me again from its\nsummit over the waters of Pownal Bay. I understood now its appeal to\nhim. The waters, beautiful as they were, were barriers to his Promised\nLand. Would Tea Hill, plain little eminence, be to Mac a new Mount\nNebo, from which he should gaze longingly, but never leave?\n\nPlain Mac of the Island, farmer with hard hands, scholar with a great\nmind, son and brother with heart of purest gold! I could not see you\nthrough the mist of my tears as the boat carried me from this your\nIsland of the good and true amongst God's children, but I could think\nonly of you as she passed the lighthouse, and the two tiny islands\nthat every one knows but no one visits, and moved down the Strait of\nNorthumberland toward the world that is yours by right of your genius,\nthat wants you and is denied. And I did not ask God to bless you, Mac,\nthough my heart was full of prayer, for I knew, oh, so well, that\nalready had He given you treasures beyond a selfish world's ken to\nvalue or to understand.","title":"The City and the World and Other Stories","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":37241}