“How did one stay?”

“She didn’t stay.  She came back to the Faith.  She was converted by a priest who was down here for his health and who was stationed in this town for about a year.  He went back North when he got better.  I would not have sent even for you, Tom, only she made me.”

Father Tom felt something grip his heart and he did not speak for a long minute.  Then he took his brother’s hand and said in his old boy language:  “Paddy, lad, tell me all about it—­how you fell away.  Maybe there was something of an excuse for it.”

“I thought there was,” said the dying man, “but now all seems different.  When I came here first, I was one of the few Catholic settlers, and I was true to my religion.  I saw the other churches built, but never went into them, though they tried hard enough to get me, God knows.  But I was fool enough to let a pretty face catch me.  It was a priest from Houston who married us.  She never interfered; and later a few more Catholics came.  The children were all baptized and we got together to build a church.  I gave the ground and all I had in the bank—­one hundred and fifty dollars.  We were only a few, but we got a thousand dollars in all.  We could get no more, and money was bringing twelve per cent, so we couldn’t borrow.  We had to give it all back and wait.  Without church or priest, the children went to the Sunday-schools and—­I lost them.  Then, I, somehow, seemed to drift until this priest came for his health.  He got us few Catholics together and converted my best—­my baby girl—­Kathleen.  She was named after mother, Tom.  We could only raise eight hundred dollars this time, but the priest said:  ‘I’ll go to my neighbors and ask help.’  So he went over to Father Pastor and Father Lyons, but they refused to help at all.  They have rich parishes, whose people would be glad to give something; but the priests said, ‘No.’  They thought helping was a mistake.  It hurt our priest, for he could do nothing on eight hundred dollars.  We needed only another five hundred.  But that ended the struggle.  I say my beads and wait alone.  Murphy and Sullivan went away.  Keane died.  His family are all ‘fallen away.’  My boy went to a college his mother liked—­and you saw him.  The others—­except Kathleen—­are all Baptists.  I suppose I have a heavy load to bear before the judgment seat, but Tom—­Tom, you don’t know the struggle it cost, and the pain of losing was greater than the pain of the fight.”

A beautiful girl came into the room.  The sick man reached out his hand which she took as she sat beside him.

“This is Kathleen, Tom.  He’s your uncle and a priest, my darling.  She sits by me this way, Tom, and we say our beads together.  I know it won’t be long now, dearie, ’till you can go with your uncle where there is a church and a chance to profit by it.”

Father Tom closed his brother’s eyes two days later.

He left with Kathleen when the funeral was over.  His nephew accompanied them to the train and said with unction: