“I feel ashamed of myself, Ryan,” he said, “that I never looked at things in such a light before.  That was a great appeal you made.  My collection is probably postponed until next Sunday, when I get home to take it up; and I tell you I am going to use every bit of that sermon that I can remember.”

Father Ryan had had little time to think over his troubles since his two friends arrived; but, somehow, they seemed to worry him now that the sermon was off his mind.  The one thousand dollar debt was weighing upon him even when he went to the door of the church to meet some of the people.

A stranger brushed past him—­a big, bluff, hearty looking man, all bone and muscle, roughly dressed and covered with mud.  There was a two-horse rig from the livery, at the curb.  The stranger started for it; but turned back on seeing the priest.

“I am a stranger here, Father,” he said.  “I have just come down from the mountains, where I have been prospecting.  I have to drive over to Caanan to get the fast train.  I find that you have no trains here on Sunday.  I hadn’t been to Mass for three months, for we have no place to go out there where I was; so it was a great consolation for me to drop in and hear a good sermon.  And I tell you it was a good sermon.  That was a great appeal you made.”

Father Ryan could only murmur, “Thank you.  You are not staying very long with us?”

“No, I can’t stay, Father.  I have to get to New York and report on what I found.  I have about fourteen miles of mud before me now, and have driven twenty miles this morning.  I don’t belong around here at all.  I live in New York; but I may be here a good deal later, and you are the nearest priest to me.  Take this and put it in the collection.”

The rough man shoved a note into Father Ryan’s hand.  By this time they both had reached the livery rig.  A quick “Good-bye” from the visitor, and a “God bless you” from Father Ryan, ended the conversation.

The priest thrust the note into his pocket and returned to the house.  When he entered the dining-room, Father Fanning was taking breakfast at the table.  Father Barry was occupying himself with a book, which he found difficulty in reading, on account of the enthusiastic comments of his friend on Father Ryan’s sermon.

“We were talking about you, Ryan,” he said.  “And there is no need of telling you what we had to say about you; but there is one thing I would like to ask.  What’s wrong with you since we came?”

“Why, nothing,” said Father Ryan.  “Haven’t I treated you better than you deserve?”

“That is all right, that is all right,” interrupted his big neighbor, “but there is something wrong.  You were worried at first.  Then you dropped it, but you started to worry again just as soon as you came out of the sanctuary.  You were at it when we came in and you are at it now.  Come, Ryan, let us know what it is.  If it is money, well—­”