, as He has provided for me, always a child. Father, always a
child, as my father told me I would be."

"Just a child," said Father Healy, as he looked at the peaceful face of
the dear friend, "as innocent and helpless as a child. God will reward
him for what he has done for others."

Death was very near Michael O'Connor at that moment; it hovered over his
bed, waiting every moment with thin, outstretched hands to snatch him
away. On his bed he lay, his face waxen in colour and emaciated, while
the white hands clasped the crucifix. Yet even then one might realise
that the dying man had at one time been called "handsome Mike O'Connor."
In the prime of his manhood--tall, broad-shouldered, and always
cheerful--no other man in the district could look anything but
insignificant beside him. But many a one from among the Irish farmers
knew that he came of a line always noted for beauty. Men and women, the
O'Connors had rarely failed in good looks, and as rarely succeeded in
keeping their money. The dying man was, after all, the inheritor of his
ancestors' virtues and failings.

The candles were lighted by the bedside. Father Healy, with Kathleen and
Desmond, knelt on the floor reciting the prayers for the dying. The
children were crying, Kathleen impulsively and without restraint,
Desmond secretively, as men are accustomed to weep. The sick man's
breathing came more slowly and weakly, his lips framed an occasional act
of contrition which he was too feeble to utter. When the end came, it
was a gentle transition from life to death. Through it all the old clock
on the bedroom mantelpiece, dark-stained, and of a quaint design, ticked
on as it had done ever since Desmond could remember. Symbolic it seemed
of the world, that heeds not death; but moves, always onwards, replacing
each one as he dies.

They clothed him in the brown habit, and placed him in the coffin, with
the crucifix on his breast. There his many friends came to pray for
him--men, women, little children, among them the good nuns, to whom he
had always been a benefactor. It may safely be said that Michael
O'Connor had not left one enemy behind him. If his life had been
something of a failure, the man's death was a complete success.

But there were the children to think of, Kathleen and Desmond,
inheritors of his good looks, but of nothing beyond that. Left young in
the hands of a careless, happy-go-lucky father, who had always
religiously applied the text of Scri