“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.”