city parish, with its ease and flattery, would ruin him." So Father Donovan had come to Maryville, and had been there five years. It was a forlorn place, yet in the midst of scenery which in wild grandeur is equalled nowhere. Above it frowned the bald knobs of Taney County, with the Boston Mountains in the distance, while to the north meadows of wheat, corn, and cane stretched like soft green seas to the undulating blue sky-line.

It is a rich country, with fine farms and mines, and a prosperity before the war marked by schools where Latin and the classics were taught, and well taught, by college men, gentlemen of the old school. Until "Reconstruction" set her blighting foot upon a people who refused to be reconstructed, Taney County blossomed like the rose, but to-day Maryville boasted only some twenty houses, a blacksmith shop, and a "stoah" where was sold everything from shoe-strings to quinine pills, and where, for lack of ready money, "butter an' eggs" were largely accepted as circulating medium. It was just the typical little Missouri cross-roads town, a hamlet huddled about the square" where the roads came together. Little attempt had been made to beautify the place, and save for the fresh neatness of the priest's lawn and a superb Baltimore Bell rose trained over the porch and outside steps of the "stoah," the houses were plain frame or log dwellings, the latter well chinked and all comfortable enough, if not beautiful.

The store was kept by John Sanders, at least the old sign over the door read

JOHN SANDERS
GeNL STORE

But John Sanders had been a helpless paralytic for years, and his daughter, a sad-looking widow with three children, had "run the business" ever since her husband was killed in the Betty Lee mine accident.

It will be readily imagined that not a great deal of money passed over the counters of the general store; and indeed there was very little to pass. If dollars had been as plentiful as children, Maryville would have compared favorably with wealthy cities, for the poorer the people grew the more industriously did they increase and multiply, and when all other crops failed, the crop of humanity waxed fruitful with increasing vigor. Father Donovan felt as though there were children to the right

when he preached of a Sunday morning. Wherever he was they found him out, and his triumphal progress through the streets resembled much that of the Pied Piper of Hamlin town, though the only charm the priest used was the music of his pleasant voice and his ready smile.

From the children he learned much more of parish matters than he could have learned elsewhere, and their chatter often enabled him to quietly help those who would have scorned to tell of their troubles.

"If I could organize a Children's Crusade' I'd soon have that church debt paid," he said to his sister, who kept house for him. Miss Martha Donovan was a somewhat sharp-featured woman of forty. Cordially as she despised the discomforts of their existence, she would gladly have resided in Sahara's desert if she could thereby have insured her adored younger brother from the horrors of bread that was sour-a word she always used with a half-whispered vehemence-and other culinary abominations to which many of the inhabitants of Taney County were addicted.

"We will simply have to do something for the church debt before Christmas," said Father Donovan. Haven't you some

ideas, Patty ?"

His sister gave a sniff of disdain.

Mind, I say these people It is putting

"My ideas don't amount to much," she said; "besides, you can't get blood out of a turnip, and in my opinion you have bled these turnip-headed Missourians all you can. They have n't any more money, or they would give it to you. to you, not to our Lord. It's shameful the idolatry show toward you. I don't see why you allow it. the creature before the Creator"; and she gazed at him indignantly over her spectacles. It was a theory of Miss Donovan's that she did not worship her brother, at least not unduly; but she was quick to see the fault in others to which her conscience told her she was most addicted, a failing not uncommon in her sex. "You'll have to send East for money," she said.

"The bishop has none to spare, and does n't like special appeals; he says they disorganize regular charities," said her brother. "I have n't the face to go to any of my old friends, for I have begged from them so often. The church needs painting this spring and the debt is assuming frightful proportions. If the interest is n't paid by Christmas, I'm afraid the

building. We must pray.-What's that?" as a sharp peal came at the door bell and his sister left the room.

"Sick call; make haste. A sick boy has been put off the through train, and they are taking him to the hotel. His mother is with him. They're strangers going East from Mexico. He'll die up at Francis'. Have him brought here at once," said his sister, all in a breath.

"You're a good girl, Patty," called Father Donovan over his shoulder, as he hurried down the path.

In half an hour the stranger was installed in the spare room at the rectory, and Dr. Ochiltree was in charge, for the boy was very ill with pneumonia. Then followed anxious days and nights of anguish, for, when sickness holds in thrall a loved one and death lurks behind the curtained window, the sunlit days are sad; but when dark night folds her curtain about the sick chamber apprehensions wax as certainties, and dread turns to horror and black despair.

A calm, sweet soul was the boy's mother; a woman whose widow's black and sad, dark eyes spoke eloquently of grief, while her sweet smile and placid brow showed that her "sorrow's crown of sorrow had been nobly worn, and peace had come through pain.

Jeannie Maclean bore her anxiety well. She was too brave to whine, too much a gentlewoman to make others uncomfortable, and she had a cheerful word and a pleasant smile for those who helped her in her trouble.

"To think that such good Samaritans should lurk in a forsaken little town like Maryville!" she said. "I was nearly desperate on the train with Cyril so ill, and this the only stopping place for three hundred miles. I thought we had gotten off at the Desert of Sahara; and how could I know there was such an oasis of warmth and light here, with angelic beings walking around in black soutanes and calico aprons. Mixed metaphors? Yes, father, I know that; but never mind, you and your sister have been angels to me."

Father Donovan laughed genially. "There are many of your church, madam, who would consider an angel in the garb of a priest very much in disguise," he said; at which his sister sniffed audibly, but Mrs. Maclean only smiled as she left the room to go to her boy. Father Donovan shook his head and sighed, saying softly, as his sister glanced inquiringly

In the days following even the bright spirit of the mother could not jest, and no one spoke save that Miss Donovan's lips moved as her thin hands passed up and down the beads she held, and in the sick room the watchers well-nigh held their breath, so near the end did Cyril seem. But the darkest night has its dawn, and though days of anxiety followed, there was hope. The turning point had been passed so imperceptibly that no one had realized it was such. Gradually the boy's fever lessened and he seemed creeping back to health, and so the days sped on till Christmas-time drew near, with all its blessed cheer and gladness. Yet the good priest's heart was heavy, for with the new year came the dreaded time of settlement, and he saw no loophole of escape.

He made an earnest appeal to his people the Sunday before Christmas, and from the eager faces which met his he hoped his words had sunk into the hearts of the people before him. He had time but to glance at the collection plate as he passed into the sacristy, but thought it fuller than usual, and rejoiced when making his thanksgiving.

As he rose from his knees a woman awaited him, and he saw it was Mrs. Overstreet, the sad-looking widow who kept the general store.

"What is it, Mrs. Overstreet?" he asked. "I hope your father is not worse."

"No, sir," she answered, "but I am in trouble. Yesterday the lady at your house paid me for her washing and gave me a ten-dollar gold-piece. I put it away toward the rent, which has been running for three months-times are so bad with usand in looking in my purse I can't find it. Do you suppose that I could possibly have put it into the plate by mistake?" Her voice was trembling, her manner embarrassed, almost frightened.

had

"I will look," said the priest. "If there is a gold-piece there it should be yours, for no one else is likely to have one in this poor little parish"; and he turned to the handkerchief, tied at the four corners like a bag, wherein the sacristan deposited the money. There lay the ten-dollar gold-piece, bright and shining, and the priest sighed inwardly as he thought how much that would help with the quarterly interest due on the church note. But he handed it to the widow, saying pleasantly, "That must be yours, Mrs. Overstreet. I hope

She took it hesitatingly and looked at it with a strange expression, then drew out a quarter from her shabby little purse and said: "Here is what I meant to put in; it's little enough, but we have to count every penny. I can't bear to take that money. I feel as if I were "-she paused and burst into tears.

"Our Lord looks at the heart, my child," said Father Donovan gently. "The widow's mite was precious to Him, and your little piece of silver given with a willing, cheerful heart means more than the gold-piece given unwittingly. God bless you and give you peace."

As, still sobbing, she hurried away, the priest knit his brows and said to himself: "A strange mistake! She seemed unnatural, but she has much to worry her, poor weary soul!" Then he hurried home to the dinner which was his breakfast, and his sister's good-natured scoldings for being late.

"Of course some silly woman kept you standing in the draught when you were so tired and hot. Her little troubles were better aired to an empty stomach ! If you weren't an angel instead of a man, you would have told her you were more sympathetic after you had had something to eat. Dinner is stone cold now. I wish the time would come when I didn't have to choose between serving you a Sunday dinner cold as charity or burned to a crisp in the endeavor to keep it hot, This chicken pie is hopelessly spoiled!

If she had said nothing Father Donovan, like most men, would not have noticed that there was anything amiss with the food, had it been served with the piquant sauce of good cheer and that air of assurance which should always accompany a well-cooked dinner. He answered nothing to his sister's tirade; but as he ate his much-delayed repast he caught the twinkle in Mrs. Maclean's dark eye, and she laughed outright as she said: "Miss Martha, have n't you learned yet that it's no use to lecture your brother? You see, he's a very difficult combination to manage, for a man never takes care of himself and a priest always takes care of other people. Better give it up; he'll never be amenable to reason when there is any poor forlorn around who needs him."

Father," she continued, as Miss Donovan gave a short laugh, "I never felt meaner in my life than I felt this morning. You have a horrible talent for making people feel small, did you