There the Padre Marini had remained as a missionary for some years, all alone.  His flock of converts was but a small one; he had little to do, and yet his mind could not be arrested by the study of all the wonders around him; his heart was sad; for years he had had a sorrow which weighed heavily upon him, and he was wretched.  Before he had embraced the solitude of a monastic life, he had with him a younger brother, of whom he was very fond.  The young man was a student in medicine, with fair capacity and an energy which promised to advance him in his profession.  When Marini entered the convent, his brother went to Turkey, where men of his profession were always certain of a good reception, and for a long time was never heard of.  At last, when the missionary was ready to start for a distant mission, he learned that which proved so destructive to his peace of mind.  From Constantinople, his brother had gone to Persia, where he was residing in easy circumstances; but, ambitious of advancement, he had abjured the faith of his fathers and become a follower of Mahommed.

It was a melancholy intelligence, and many were the tears of the good monk.  The first year of his arrival at Hurdwar, he met with a Jewish merchant who had accompanied a Persian caravan.  That man knew his brother, the renegade, and informed the Padre that his brother had fallen into disgrace, and as a punishment of his apostacy, was now leading a life of privation and misery.

Deep and fervent were now the monk’s prayers to heaven; he implored forgiveness for his brother, and offered penance for him.  Poor man! he thought if he could but see him and talk to him, he would redeem him from his apostacy; but, alas! his duty was in Hurdwar, he was bound there and could not move.  One day (it was during the fair) he had wandered at a distance from the river, that he might not witness the delusions of paganism, and his mind was intensely absorbed in prayer.  Anon, unusual sounds broke on his ears; sounds well known, sounds reminding him of his country, of his beautiful Italy.  They came from a little bower ten steps before him; and as past scenes rushed to his memory, his heart beat tremulously in his bosom; the monk recognized a barcarole which he had often sung in his younger days:  but although the air was lively, the voice which sung it was mournful and sad.  Stepping noiselessly, he stood at the entrance of the bower.  The stranger started and arose!  Their separation had been a long one, but neither the furrowed cheeks and sallow complexion of the one, nor the turbaned head of the other, could deceive them; and the two brothers fell in each others arms.

On its return, the Persian caravan had one driver the less, for the apostate was on his death-bed in the humble dwelling of his brother.  Once more a Christian, again reconciled to his God, he calmly awaited his summons to a better world.  For two weeks he lingered on, repenting his error and praying for mercy.  He died, and in the little jessamine bower where he had met with the Mussulman, the monk buried the Christian; he placed a cross upon his grave and mourned him long; but a heavy load had been removed from his breast, and since that time he had felt happy, having no weight on his mind to disturb him in the execution of his sacred ministry.