of his poor little church, and cried like a baby?

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

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

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

"Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?"

"I am," said the priest in surprise.

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

Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction.

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

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

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

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

"Yes, Tom, he is."

"Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died before she knew. 'Twill be no
warm welcome she'll be giving ye on the other side."

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