“Come, Uncle Tom, it is your turn!” cried Pollie, breaking in upon the reverie of their mother’s brother, who, seated in the old red arm-chair, was gazing abstractedly at the cheery flames.

“Yes, please let us have something about the war,” put in Rob.

“But everybody has been telling war stories for the last twenty-five years.  Do you not think we have had enough of them?” said the gentleman.

“One never tires of hearing of deeds of bravery,” answered Rob, dramatically.

“Or of romantic adventures,” added Pollie.

Uncle Tom looked amused; but, after some hesitation, said; “Well, I will tell you an incident recalled by this pine-wood fire.  It may seem extraordinary; but, having witnessed it myself, I can vouch for its truth.  You consider me an old soldier; yet, though I wore the blue uniform for more than a year and saw some fighting, I was only a youth of eighteen when the war closed; and, in spite of my boyish anxiety to distinguish myself and become a hero, I probably would never have attained even to the rank of orderly, had it not come about in the following manner:” 

Our regiment was stationed at A------, not far from the seat of war. 
Near our quarters was a Catholic church, attended by the ------
Fathers.   I early made the acquaintance of one of them, who was
popularly known as Father Friday, this being the nearest approach to
the pronunciation of his peculiar German name to which the majority of
the people could arrive.   In him I recognized my ideal of a Christian
gentleman, and as such I still revere his memory.

He was one of the handsomest men I ever saw—­tall and of splendid physique, with light brown hair, blue eyes, and a complexion naturally fair, but bronzed by the sun.  Though in reality he was as humble and unassuming as any lay-brother in his community, his bearing was simply regal.

He could not have helped it any more than he could help the impress of nobility upon his fine features.  The youngsters used to enjoy seeing him pass the contribution box in church at special collections.  It must have been “an act” (as you convent girls say, Pollie).  He would move along in his superb manner, looking right over the heads of the congregation, and disdaining to cast a glance at the “filthy lucre” that was being heaped up in the box which from obedience he carried.  What were silver and gold, let alone the cheap paper currency of the times, to him, who had given up wealth and princely rank to become a religious!  Yet, in fact, they were a great deal, since they meant help for the needy—­a church built, a hospital for the sick poor.  In this sense none appreciated more the value of money.