“Well enough, I think, to sit up in half-an-hour,” replied the doctor of the moment.

“My dear sir, may I ask you to delay your treatment until I perform a religious office with your patient?  This is a favourable time for making an impression,” said the hitherto callous priest.

“Certainly, Father, only be short, for he is suffering physically, and worse from apprehension.”

“I shall require all persons, but the one to whom I give the comforts of religion, to leave the room,” called the priest aloud.

“It isn’t the unction, Father?” cried Ben, piteously.

“Oh, doctor, the boy’s not going to die?” besought the mother, at the boiler on the stove.

“I can answer for his reverence and myself,” replied the lawyer; “he will not administer the last rites of the Church to the living, nor will I let my patient die.”

Then he and the widow retired, as the priest took out a book, knelt by the bedside, and opened it.  The reverend gentleman, however, was in too great a hurry to begin, and too little sensible how far his penetrating voice would carry, for, at the first words of the prayer, Coristine made an indignant start and frowned terribly.  The words he heard were, “Oratio pro sickibus, in articulo mortis, repentant shouldere omnes transgressores et confessionem makere——­”

He felt inclined to rush in and turn the impudent impostor and profaner of the sacred office out of the house neck and crop, especially as the poor mother took him by the arm, and, with broken voice through her tears, said:  “O, doctor, doctor, it’s the last words he’s taking!” But his legal training acted as a check on his impetuosity, and, standing where he was, he answered the grief-stricken woman:  “Never fear, Mrs. Toner, you and I will pull him through,” which greatly comforted the widow’s heart.

Five minutes passed by Coristine’s watch, and then he determined to stand the nonsense no longer.  He coughed, stamped his feet, and finally walked in at the door, followed by the widow.  The pseudo priest was sitting on a chair now, listening to the penitent’s confidences.  “Time is up,” said the lawyer fiercely, and the impostor arose, resumed his three-cornered black wideawake, pocketed his book, which really was a large pocket book full of notes in pencil, and expressed his regret at leaving, as he had another family, a very sad case, to visit that night.  As he passed Coristine, the latter refused his proffered hand and hissed in his ear:  “You are the most damnable scoundrel I ever met, and I’ll serve you out for this with the penitentiary.”  The masquerader grinned unclerically, his back being to the other occupants of the house, and whispered back, “Not much you won’t, no nor the halfpenny tentiary either; bye-bye!”

“How are you feeling, Ben?” the lawyer asked the sick man, as he approached his bedside.

“Powerful weak and so-er,” replied the patient.