“How is this?” he exclaimed.  “Is there any one here sick or dying?”

“Poor Misther Lanigan, sir, is jist departing glory be to God!  An’ what is terrible all out upon himself and family, he’s dyin’ widout the priest.  They’re both at Conwhirence, sir, and can’t come—­Mr. Dogherty an’ his curate.”

“Make way!” said the stranger, throwing himself off his horse, and passing quickly through the people.  “Show me to the sick man’s room—­be quick, my friends—­I am a Catholic clergyman.”

In a moment a passage was cleared, and the stranger found himself beside the bed of death.  Grief in the room was loud and bitter; but his presence stilled it despite of what they felt.

“My dear friends,” said he, “you know there should be silence in the apartment of a dying man.  For shame!—­for shame!  Cease this clamor, it will but distract him for whom you weep, and prevent him from composing his mind for the great trial that is before him.”

“Sir,” said Lanigan’s wife, seizing his hand in both hers, and looking distractedly in his face, “are you a priest?  For heaven’s sake tell us?”

“I am,” he replied; “leave the room every one of you.  I hope your husband is not speechless?”

“Sweet Queen of Heaven, not yet, may her name be praised! but near it, your Reverence—­widin little or no time of it.”.

Whilst they spoke, he was engaged in putting the stole about his neck, after which he cleared the room, and commenced hearing Lanigan’s confession.

The appearance of a priest, and the consolation it produced, rallied the powers of life in the benevolent farmer.  He became more collected; made a clear and satisfactory confession; received the sacrament of Extreme Unction; and felt himself able to speak with tolerable distinctness and precision.  The effects of all this were astonishing.  A placid serenity, full of hope and confidence, beamed from the pale and worn features of him who was but a few minutes before in a state of terror altogether indescribable.  When his wife and family, after having been called in, observed this change, they immediately participated in his tranquillity.  Death had been deprived of its sting, and grief of its bitterness; their sorrow was still deep, but it was not darkened by the dread of future misery.  They felt for him as a beloved father, a kind husband, and a clear friend, who had lived a virtuous life, feared God, and was now about to pass into happiness.

When the rites of the church were administered, and the family again assembled round the bed, the priest sat down in a position which enabled him to see the features of this good man more distinctly.

“I would be glad,” said Lanigan, “to know who it is that God in his goodness has sent to smooth my bed in death, if it ‘ud be plasin’, sir, to you to tell me?”

“Do you remember,” replied the priest, “a young lad whom you met some years ago on his way to Munster, as a poor scholar!  You and your family were particularly kind to him; so kind that he has never since forgotten your affectionate hospitality.”