wish, but was yet either too indifferent on the subject, or too lazy, to go such a journey as to the city of T——­ in search of a personage of whom he stood in such awe, and knew so little of, as the Catholic priest.  A neighboring Irish farmer, named O’Leary, hearing of the wish of the dying woman, volunteered to bring the priest, if “there was one to be found in all America,” he said, “provided he got a horse and wagon from the stable of the rich Yankee.”  And it was in company with this simple but brave and faithful man that Father O’Shane set out on the evening of the widow’s death.  They had not advanced many miles, however, when the wind veered round to the north-west, and a most violent snow storm blew quite in their face.  Slow and unpleasant was their progress over the hard, icy road; but in the course of a few hours their farther advance became an utter impossibility with a wagon.  They had, therefore, to stop at a tavern; and after a good deal of entreaty, and after having fed their horse, they succeeded in hiring from the boss the use of a sleigh to carry them along to Vermont.

“Ye can’t travel nohow to-night,” said the boss; “the roads will be blocked up, chuck full.”

“We’ll have to travel, sir,” said the Irishman, “or die in the attempt; so let us have the cutter.  Charge what you have a mind to.”

“Why, what in the world can be the matter?  Ye ain’t subpoenaed, or going to arrest somebody?” said the jolly boss.

“Ah, no such thing, man,” said the farmer; “but there is a woman dangerously ill, and yon gentleman in the sitting room is a doctor, going to visit her.  Cost what it may, we must go ahead.”

“O, that alters the case.  Why did you not say so at first? and you should have had it and welcome.  It will be ready in no time.  Hitch on to that new, light cutter in the shed, Sam,” said he to the hostler.

“Ya, ya,” said Sam; and in five minutes the priest and his guide were again proceeding on their charitable mission.  They reached their destination about two o’clock in the night, just one hour before the death of her on whose account they had come such a journey.  Father O’Shane—­poor old gentleman!—­suffered terribly; had his ears frostbitten, and two of his fingers frozen.  But no matter; a soul was to be saved, and that consideration alleviated all his sufferings, and rendered him dead to every thing—­cold, pain, watchings, hunger, thirst, and weariness; nay, even death itself was but a trivial, inadequate price to be paid by a mortal man to gain an immortal soul to Christ and eternal happiness.

“’Tis an awful night, reverend sir,” said O’Leary.  “I fear we can’t go ahead.”

“What matter, O’Leary,” said Father O’Shane, “as we reached in time?  What is this night and all its violence compared with the sufferings of a poor soul in the next world?  All I regret is that you did not send me in the sick call sooner.  All is well, however; she was perfectly conscious, and, I hope, worthily received all the rites of religion.  Hold up! you will rest well to-night, your conscience at ease, after having been engaged in such a meritorious act of charity.”