“Come in, come in, Collins, come in to your own house,” the first assistant called.  “Come in, man, and be at home.  I couldn’t sleep, so I had to get up and wait around, hungry enough; but,” he had caught the expression on his friend’s face, “what is the matter?”

“Oh, nothing much, nothing much,” replied Father Collins, “only I see the whole parish is turning out to-day for the eight o’clock Mass.  The O’Briens and Doctor Reilly have just gone in.  You know, they always go to High Mass.”

“Which,” remarked Father Grady, “is no compliment either to my singing, or your Eminence’s preaching, or to both.”

“Oh, your singing is all right,” assured Father Collins.

“Well,” said Father Grady, “I accept the correction.  I am a modest man, but I must acknowledge that I can sing—­at least, relatively speaking, for I haven’t very much to compete against.  However, if it is not my singing, then it must be your preaching.”

“It is, it is,” answered his friend, with just a touch of shakiness in his voice.  “Look here Grady, you know I made a good course in the Seminary.  You know I am not an ignoramus and you know that I work hard.  I prepare every sermon and write it out; when the manuscript is finished I know it by heart.  Now, here is the sermon for to-day.  Look at it and if you love me, read it.  Tell me what is wrong with it.”

Father Grady took the papers and began to look them over, while Father Collins picked up a book and pretended to be interested in it.  In truth, he was glancing at his companion very anxiously over the top, until the manuscript had been laid down.

“My dear Collins, you are right,” said Father Grady.  “It is a good sermon.  I wish I could write one half as good.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with it.”

“But,” urged Father Collins, “I shall spoil it.”

“Well,” said his friend, “candor compels me to acknowledge that you probably shall.  I don’t know why.  Can’t you raise your voice?  Can’t you have courage?  The people won’t bite you.  You can talk well enough to the school children.  You can talk well enough to me.  Why can’t you stand up and be natural?  Just be yourself and talk to them as you talk to us.  That is the whole secret.”

“It is my nervousness, Grady,” said Father Collins.  “I am afraid the minute I enter the church to preach.  When I open my mouth, I lose my voice out of fear.  That is what it is—­fear.  I am simply an arrant coward.  I tell you, Grady, I hate myself for it.”

“Now, look here,” said his companion earnestly, “you are not a coward.  You can preach.  It is in you, and it will come out, yet.  I call this sermon nothing short of a masterpiece.  If you can not brace up now, the occasion will come to loosen your tongue.  It surely will.”

“This is the worst day I have had,” groaned poor Father Collins.  “I am shaking like a leaf, already.  Look here, Grady, do me a favor just this once.  You preach so easily.  You can get up a sermon in half an hour.  You have nothing to do until half past ten.  Now, let me go out and make the announcements and read the Gospel at the nine o’clock Mass.  Most of the children will be there and I can say a few words to them.  You preach at High Mass.”