came into the room. The sick man reached out his hand
which she took as she sat beside him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father Tom heard, but did not say a word.

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

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

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

THE UNBROKEN SEAL

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

Slevski was haranguing the mob and his eye caught that of the priest
while he was in the midst of an impassioned period, but a look of hate
alone showed that he had seen him. Only a few o