A Complete Story

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 1, 7 January 1925, Page 11

A Complete Story

No other mission, given in Holy Family parish, ever succeeded like that one. The •old church was crowded for every exercise; the sermons were discussed in workshops and : department stores, in fine hotels, cheap lodging houses, and by hundreds of firesides; and each afternoon and evening, while it f lasted, long lines of penitents waited about the confessionals, many of whom had not approached the Sacraments for ten or even twenty years. Some said that it was Father Murphy's eloquence, or his eloquence, kindliness, and holiness, all three together, that worked the miracle; others, more prosaicly inclined, in- ; sisted that the mission was "popular," as they put it, merely because scores of people . in" the parish remembered Father Murphy as a bright-faced boy, in the school and about ; the sanctuary, and were interested to see how he had developed. To Father Murphy himself the mission .'meant an unusual amount of hard work, some consolation, much weariness, and a rather sad renewing of old associations sad, because all those whom he had loved best slept in the little graveyard behind the church. •;' It was with a sense of thankfulness that he realised the task was almost finished, as he left the confessional, on Friday afternoon, \ in the second and last week of the mission. man instantly intercepted him to ask a 'question about the hour of the first Mass; f-vj'. then, in going up the aisle he passed, close to a 'stout, poorly dressed, old woman, who whispered something that he did not catch. ' .Bending over her he said gently, "Pardon me, but I did not understand Awhat you said."

HER SECOND SON

The woman turned a sweet, tired, radiantly smiling face up to him. "Oh, Father, I did not speak to you! I must have been praying too loud. Excuse me. I was just a-thanking Rim over and over again." "A good prayer! Many of us forget to thank H.im," Father Murphy whispered approvingly; and as he entered the sanctuary he' thought, with a feeling of tenderness for the old woman: "Surely the good Lord loves her!" In all probability he would never have given a, thought to her.again, if he had not heard his name whispered loudly, an instant later, and turned back to see the same old woman standing at the altar rail holding out to him a rather grimy envelope. "Father, it's an offering for a Mass in thanksgiving, because —because a dear plan of mine turned out well— well I can hardly believe it; something I wanted to do for the dear Lord, and He let me," she explained and added coaxingly, "I just thought this minute that maybe you would say it yourself." "My Masses are promised for the next week or ten days, but perhaps Father Prendergast" Father Murphy began; but she interrupted him: "There's no hurry at all about mine, and I surely would like you to say it yourself, if you're willing" she begged. "Well, well, I will: on the first free day I have," Father Murphy agreed; and she thanked him as if he had done her a very gerat kindness. He passed into the house and went to the room which had been assigned him, intending to rest during the half hour before supper-time for immediately after the meal

there would be converts' class-in one- of- the parlors, followed by a sermon and more work in the confessional; but first of all, he took: a small note book from his Ibag arid made a memorandum of the old woman's Mass intention. . \ . This done, he tore open the envelope, slipped the dollar-bill into his pocket, and was on the point of ;; throwing the: envelope into the waste-paper basket when he chanced to glance at the inscription upon it, written in a large tremulous, illiterate hand, exactly thus: "ofring for a Mass of thaksgivin." Father Murphy, stared at the two lines. It Mas not the original spelling that held his eyes, but the queer capital M and the strange long tails worn by the g's. Suddenly, with the envelope still in his hand, he ran from the room, down the stairs, out of the house, and across the yard to the church door. Into the sanctuary he hurried and looked toward the pew in which the old woman had knelt when* he first spoke to her. She was there no longer; and, slowly and regretfully he returned to the parish house and went to the pastor's study on the ground floor. "Father Prendegast," he said excitedly, holding out the envelope for him to see, "can you tell me whose writing this is? It is quite individual, you observe. Do you know it? An old woman gave me this envelope, with a Mass offering enclosed in it: a dear old body, stout, and smiling, and perhaps a little slatternly in 1 her dress. Do you know whom I mean from the writing or from my description?" Father Prendegast smiled. "I do not recognise the writing—never saw it before, to my knowledge; but I judge that your friend spent but few days in school, and has scaur respect for Webster or the Standard Dictionary. As for the other clues you give, "stout, and. sweet = faced, and poorly clad" the description would fit half the good old souls in this parish, or in any other where the congregation, is more than half Irish." Then, after a glance into Father Murphy's face, he added, more gravely; "You are disappointed? I am sorry that I cannot holp you. Seriously, I haven't an idea who she is." "Indeed I am disappointed," Father Murphy admitted. From an inner pocket he drew an envelope, and out of it took two smaller ones, and handed them and the one he had received only half an hour before to Father Prendegast. "See, the writing is identical: the same funny g's, and the same big stiff capital M." Father Prendegast examined them carefully. "There is no mistaking the writing after you have seen a sample of it," he agreed. "So you want to trace her." .■■■• "You'll help me to find her, won't you. Father?" Father Murphy said almost imploringly. • ; ' Father Prendegast smiled again. "I'm willing, but what can I do ?!!■:, "I don't know—wish. I did. It's such a' large congregation, and as you say what clues have we?" : * ;" He was silent for a moment, vainly trying to devise some means and when he spoke again," it was' to say,-" -

"I'll tell you why I wish so much to find •her. You know that I grew up in this parish. "We lived in a small, shabby house on West Dodridge Street. My father died I was only a year old, and my mother had a hard struggle to : keep the wolf from the door. . When I was thirteen or fourteen I began to long to become a priest, hut I knew mother could not possibly pay my way. did not say a word to her, but I spoke (yP dear old Father Kennedy, and he spoke dear old Father Kennedy, and he pro*y"niised to do what he could for me. ■ "One day, when I had almost finished the eighth grade, and knew that the next year I must go to work unless some way could be found to send me through high school and to the seminary—one day, Father Kennedy took me aside and told me that a lady in the parish wished to support a boy while he made his studiesto pay his tuition fees for his books, clothing, everything." " ' May Ibe the boy, Father? I promise that I'd do my best,' I begged. " ' I'll speak to your mother about it,' he said; and he did; and very soon everything had been arranged just as I had hardly dared to hope. "The money was given to Father Kennedy, and he sent to the rector what was needed for my school fees, and to me, enough for clothes and incidental expences. I did not know the name of my benefactress, and Father Kennedy was pledged never to reveal it. When I was within two years of ordination he died, and I lived through a very miserable month during which I did not know what provisions could be made for me, but some weeks before my half yearly tuition was due, an envelope was left for me at the door of the college, which contained -1 all the money I should need for the remainder of the year. "The same thing happened in June. Wasn't it thoughtful of her to send it then, so I could know throughout the summer that '; there need (be no worry about being able .to return? I questioned the lay-brother at the door, but all he could tell me was that a woman had left the letter, and would not come inside, even to see the new chapel. I told him that if she ever came again I must see her; and I reminded him several times as the next mid-year approached but one afternoon he came to me, shamefaced, and gave me the last I ever received, or needed, of these envelopes. It was a cold windy, snowy day, but he had not been able to persuade the woman to come in. He had coaxed her to wait until he called me, but she had literally run away at the mere sug- | gestion. • • "I heard from her once more: on the day , of my ordination. She sent me a chalice. if Since then there has not been one word, and that was fifteen years ago. Do you wonder \ ■.. that I want to find her? And this Mass ; ofjphanksgiving that she wants me to say—j- I am quite certain, from what she hinted, t it is because I persevered, and was ordained, v and am here to give this mission." ' -.- Father Prendegast. was interested now, almost as eager as Father Murphy to '"? trace the generous old woman. "We must r finJfOier before you go; but I can think of ; no &ay except for you to keep watch for

her whenever you are about the church. You would know her again, wouldn't you?" "Yes, unquestionably but the chance seems slight, and I am so eager." Father Murphy decided to say his benefactress's Mass the next morning, and to put off another until the following week, and he said it with unusual fervor and consolation. Afterward, as he knelt on a prieDieu in the sanctuary to make his thanksgiving, he glanced instinctively toward the pew in which the woman had knelt the afternoon before. It happened to be directly bebore the altar at which he had offered his Mass. An old woman was in it then; but he could not be certain it was she, for her head was bent forward, so that it rested on the back of the seat before her, and her face was entirely hidden. After most of the worshippers had left the church he went to her, and touched her on the shoulder to attract her attention. She had not moved since he first noticed her, and even now she did not stir. He took her hand in his, and found it cold, unnaturally cold. She had slipped away to heaven while his Mass was being said. Father Prendegast was summoned hastily, and as soon as he saw her he exclaimed, "It's poor old Mrs. Meara! Surely, she

went straight to God, for: a better soul never lived, nor a, kindlier, nor a merrier!" A moment later, catching sight of Father Murphy's agitated face, he exclaimed, [t "So she was your friend! lam not greatly surprised, although—-What you must have cost her in sacrifices! She made her living by scrubbing in one of the big office buildings down town. She has worked from 10 to 6 every night for forty-three years. She could not rest, in her old age, because she had never saved a dollar so she told me herself, not more than two or three weeks ago." Half an hour later, when the two priests were at the breakfast table, Father Prendegast said to Father Murphy, "Her husband died many, many years ago—not very long after they were married. She had one child, a boy, who lived to be twelve years of age. She told me about him more than once, always explaining that she was certain he would have been a priest had he lived. But God was good to her. I have heard from other sources that he was a rascal, a really bad boy; besides being too dull and too lazy to have made his studies. well, God always knows best! Her second son turned out well, and, God be praised, she lived to see it." — The Sign.