Among other propositions which were then submitted to the Parliament, was one advocating the restoration of the road-side crosses throughout the province.  It was found, however, on inquiry, that these crosses were to be counted by thousands, and that the mere cost of wood required to re-erect them necessitated an expenditure of money which the bankrupt nation could ill afford to spare.  While this project was under discussion, and before it was finally rejected, one man had undertaken the task which the Government shrank from attempting.  When Gabriel left the cottage, taking his brother and sisters to live with his wife and himself at the farmhouse, Francois Sarzeau left it also, to perform in highway and byway his promise to Father Paul.  For months and months he labored without intermission at his task; still, always doing good, and rendering help and kindness and true charity to any whom he could serve.  He walked many a weary mile, toiled through many a hard day’s work, humbled himself even to beg of others, to get wood enough to restore a single cross.  No one ever heard him complain, ever saw him impatient, ever detected him in faltering at his task.  The shelter in an outhouse, the crust of bread and drink of water, which he could always get from the peasantry, seemed to suffice him.  Among the people who watched his perseverance, a belief began to gain ground that his life would be miraculously prolonged until he had completed his undertaking from one end of Brittany to the other.  But this was not to be.

He was seen one cold autumn evening, silently and steadily at work as usual, setting up a new cross on the site of one which had been shattered to splinters in the troubled times.  In the morning he was found lying dead beneath the sacred symbol which his own hands had completed and erected in its place during the night.  They buried him where he lay; and the priest who consecrated the ground allowed Gabriel to engrave his father’s epitaph in the wood of the cross.  It was simply the initial letters of the dead man’s name, followed by this inscription:  “Pray for the repose of his soul:  he died penitent, and the doer of good works.”

Once, and once only, did Gabriel hear anything of Father Paul.  The good priest showed, by writing to the farmhouse, that he had not forgotten the family so largely indebted to him for their happiness.  The letter was dated “Rome.”  Father Paul said that such services as he had been permitted to render to the Church in Brittany had obtained for him a new and a far more glorious trust than any he had yet held.  He had been recalled from his curacy, and appointed to be at the head of a mission which was shortly to be dispatched to convert the inhabitants of a savage and far distant land to the Christian faith.  He now wrote, as his brethren with him were writing, to take leave of all friends forever in this world, before setting out—­for it was well known to the chosen persons intrusted with the new mission that they could only hope to advance its object by cheerfully risking their own lives for the sake of their religion.  He gave his blessing to Francois Sarzeau, to Gabriel, and to his family; and bade them affectionately farewell for the last time.