Chapter V (2)

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

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

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

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

I made up my mind to forget, so my next effort was the greatest I had yet made--my partnership with millions of others. I traveled long distances over and over again. I dug gold from the earth and so produced others like myself. I built railroads, skyscrapers, steamships and great public works. I disguised myself, in order to enhance my power, under new forms of paper and metal, coin, drafts, checks, orders and notes. Indeed I scarcely knew myself when I returned to the bill with the red stain upon it. My partners were nearly all with us one day when the master came in with a man and pointed us out to him. The man shook his head. It was a great, massive head, good to look at. My master talked a long time with him but he never changed. Then he placed a great roll of us in his hand. He threw us down, kicked us, and went out without a look back. I was more unhappy than ever. He had spurned me, though I knew by his look that he wanted me. I felt cursed. I had not much power at all. There was another thing I could not buy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Angel touched me.

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

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

LE BRAILLARD DE LA MAGDELEINE[1]

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

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

"Yes, it is a baby. Across there you might see, but the storm darkens everything, yonder toward Gaspe, where the little mother lived--_pauvre mere_. She was only a child, innocent and good and happy, when he came--the great lord, the _Grand Seigneur_, from France--came with the Commandant to Quebec and then to Tadousac.

"She loved him, loved him and forgot--forgot her father and mother--forgot the good name they gave her--forgot the innocence that made her beautiful--forgot the pure Mother and the good God, for him and his love. She went to Quebec with him, but the Cure had not blessed them in the church.

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

THE LEGEND OF DESCHAMPS

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

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

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

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

And Pascal, the best beloved?

Pascal was--a traitor!

The blood of Deschamps in the veins of a traitor! Wife, daughter and gallant sons had been riven from him by death and the Christian's hope lightened the; mourner's desolation. But disgrace! Neither earth nor heaven held consolation for such wrong as his. Deschamps brooded on his woe; alone he endured his agony, giving utterance to his despair in the words: "France! Pascal! Traitor!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE THOUSAND DOLLAR NOTE

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

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

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

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

"Yes, sur; yes, sur, you did, sur. I told you the foundations was sandy, sur, and that we had to go down deeper than the specifications called fur. It cost in labor, sur,"--McMurray did not seem to be enjoying his explanation--"fur diggin' and layin' the stone. Then you know, sur, it takes more material to do it, sur. You said, yes--to go ahead, sur."

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

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

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

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

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

"It looks as if I had to get it, somehow. I don't see how I can do anything else," answered the priest. "This thing has sort of stunned me. Give me one month and let me do my best. I wish I had never started that building at all."

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

McMurray looked longingly at the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sincerely yours in Christ,

THOMAS, _Bishop of Tolma_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, now, go easy, young man, go easy. I simply won't preach. It is no use asking me. I am on a vacation, I tell you. So is Barry. He won't talk, so I have to defend him. You wouldn't want a man to work on his vacation, would you?"

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

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

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

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

He closed it very effectively: "I owe the Seminary, my dear friends," he said, "about all that I have of priestly equipment. Nothing that I may ever say or do can repay even a mite of the obligation that is upon me. As for you, and the other Catholics of this Diocese, you owe the Seminary for nine-tenths of the priests who have been successfully carrying on God's work in your midst. The collection to-day is for that Seminary. In other words, it is for the purpose of helping to train priests who shall take our places when we are gone. On the Seminary depends the future of the Church amongst you: therefore, the future of religion in your families. Looking at this thing in a selfish way, for the present alone, there is perhaps no need of giving your little offering to this collection; but if you are thinking of your children and your children's children, and the future of religion, not only in this community but all over our State, and even in the Nation, you will be generous--even lavish, in your gifts. This is a poor little parish. We have struggled hard, God knows, to build our church, and we need every dollar we can scrape together; but I would rather be in need myself than refuse this appeal. I am entitled by the laws of the Diocese to take out of the collection the average amount of the Sunday collection. I would be ungrateful if I took a cent, so I don't intend to. Every dollar, every penny that you put into this collection shall be sent to the Bishop for the Seminary; to help him educate worthy priests for our Diocese."

After Mass, Father Fanning shook hands with the preacher.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father Barry looked up quickly from his book and said: "Surely, it is not the new church, is it?"

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

"I always hate a man who can keep a secret," said Father Fanning. "I always believe that the fellow who can keep a secret is the fellow you have to watch. You never know what he is thinking about, so nobody ever is sure of him. Don't be ashamed now of not being able to keep a secret, and don't worry yourself by keeping this one. Out with it."

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

And he told his story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The little old priest with the book in front of him seemed to have no comment to make. He let his two friends ramble on, both overjoyed at the good fortune that had extricated Father Ryan from his dilemma. But he was not reading. He was thinking. By and by he spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, so far as I can see," said Father Barry, "what you say does not change matters any. Father Ryan promised every dollar--and every cent for that matter--in that collection to the Seminary. This money forms part of the collection. I know perfectly well that most men would argue as you do, but this is a case of conscience. The money was given for a specific purpose, and in my judgment, if Father Ryan uses it for any other purpose than the one for which it was given, he simply will have to make restitution later on to the Seminary.

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

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

It was Wednesday morning when the two visitors left, and the discussions only ended when the door closed upon them. There was not a theological book in Father Ryan's library left unconsulted.

When Father Fanning was at the door, grip in hand, he said: "Well, I guess we have come to no conclusion, Ryan. You will have to finish it, yourself, and decide for yourself. But there is one thing I can testify to, besides the stubbornness of my venerable friend here, and that is that I have learned more theology out of this three-day discussion than I learned in three years previously. There is nothing like a fight to keep a fellow in training."

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

YOUR LORDSHIP--I am sending herewith enclosed my Seminary
collection. It amounts to $1,063.10. You may be surprised at
the first figure; but there was a thousand dollar note
handed to me for that particular collection. I congratulate
the Seminary on getting it.

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

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

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

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

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

"This looks as if you had been practicing a little deceit upon me, Father Ryan," he said. "You wrote me that the church was finished without debt."

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

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

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

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

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

"I understand that, your Lordship," said Father Etan. "You have no obligation to me at all in that regard."

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

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

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

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

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

"Respectfully yours,

"PAUL WILCOX."

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

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

THE OCCASION

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

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

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

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

"Sure, it is," said the Doctor. "Faith, I forgot that. I was going to High Mass meself, but I ran over to see ye. Yes, it's his turn. Sure, the poor man puts me to sleep, and sleepin' in the House of God is neither respectful nor decorous. But what is a man to do?"

"He is the finest priest in the city," said Mr. O'Brien, looking back to see if his regiment was following, "and the worst preacher. I can't sit still and listen to him. He loses his voice the minute he gets before the people, and some day I think he'll pull the pulpit down, trying to get his words out. Faith, Doc, he makes me want to get up and say it for him."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My dear Collins, you are right," said Father Grady. "It is a good sermon. I wish I could write one half as good. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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