"Then father is waiting for you. I am your nephew. Get in with me."
Father Tom forgot his weariness in his stupefaction.
"You—you are a clergyman?" he stammered.
"Oh, yes! Baptist pastor over in the next village. Father was always a Romanist, but the rest of us, but one, are Christians."
If you could only have seen Father Tom's face. No more was said; no more was needed. In a few minutes the buggy stopped before the Connolly farm home and Father Tom was with his brother. He lost no time.
"Patrick," said he, "is that young Baptist minister your son?"
"Yes, Tom, he is."
"Good Lord! Thank Him that mother died before she knew. 'Twill be no warm welcome she'll be giving ye on the other side."
"Perhaps not, Tom. I've thought little of these things, except as to how I might forget them, till now. Somehow, it doesn't seem quite right. But I did the best I could. I have one of the children to show her."
"How did one stay?"