parish.”  In the other part of the town, however, everything was quiet enough, and none would think of offending his pastor by showing any interest in Father Ilwin, financially or otherwise.  Father Ilwin said nothing; but do you wonder that one day when a generous gift was announced from “the Rev. Thomas Connolly, our respected fellow citizen,” to help in the erection of a Soldier’s Monument for the town, Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, where, on the table, were laid out the plans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby?

[Illustration:  “Father Ilwin read it and went back into his room, where on the table were laid out the plans of his poor little church, and cried like a baby.”]

It happened that Father Tom rarely ever left his parish, which was again much to his credit with the people.  “Sure, he never takes a vacation at all,” they said.  But at last a call came that he could not refuse, and, having carefully made his plans to secure a monk from a monastery quite far away to take his place over Sunday, he left to see a sick brother from whom he had seldom heard, and who lived far in the Southwest.  Perhaps it was significant, perhaps not—­I do not know, and I do not judge—­that Father Tom was particular to say in his letter to the monastery that, “as the weather is warm, the father who comes to take my place need only say a Low Mass and may omit the usual sermon.”  It was known that Father Tom did not care for preachers from outside.  He could preach a little himself, and he knew it.

It was a long and tiresome journey to the bedside of Father Tom’s dying brother, so when the big, good-natured priest stepped off the train at Charton station in Texas, he was worn out and weary.  But he soon had to forget both.  A dapper young man was waiting for him in a buggy.  The young lad had a white necktie and wore a long coat of clerical cut.  Father Tom passed the buggy, but was called back by its occupant.

“Are you not the Reverend Thomas Connolly?”

“I am,” said the priest in surprise.

“Then father is waiting for you.  I am your nephew.  Get in with me.”

Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction.

“You—­you are a clergyman?” he stammered.

“Oh, yes!  Baptist pastor over in the next village.  Father was always a Romanist, but the rest of us, but one, are Christians.”

If you could only have seen Father Tom’s face.  No more was said; no more was needed.  In a few minutes the buggy stopped before the Connolly farm home and Father Tom was with his brother.  He lost no time.

“Patrick,” said he, “is that young Baptist minister your son?”

“Yes, Tom, he is.”

“Good Lord!  Thank Him that mother died before she knew.  ’Twill be no warm welcome she’ll be giving ye on the other side.”

“Perhaps not, Tom.  I’ve thought little of these things, except as to how I might forget them, till now.  Somehow, it doesn’t seem quite right.  But I did the best I could.  I have one of the children to show her.”