The Alchemist's Secret

by Isabel Cecilia Williams

"Not everyone," said her mother sadly. "There is one who has not been in spite of his promise to us and to the Father."

The girl glanced quickly at the table on which plates for two were laid, then at the supper keeping hot upon the stove, and exclaimed rather bitterly:

"So Tim is away again, as usual, is he? And he promised faithfully to come home early to-night and go to confession for Christmas. But then, he promised the same last Easter and every First Friday since, and has broken his word every time. Mother, how long is it now since Tim has been to Mass or to confession?"

"I do not like to think, child; it's a pretty long time. I can't understand what has come over him. He used to be such a good boy, such a help and comfort to me, and now he is slowly breaking my heart. I've had trials enough, trials enough, as you know, but I never complained. I never murmured till now. I was always ready to say: 'God's will be done.' But this, this is different. Long ago, when you and Tim were children, and the twins upstairs were but a few weeks old, and your father met with that accident that crippled him for life, I only said: 'God's will be done.' All through the years he lingered in sickness and suffering and I had to work day and night, day and night to support you all, I still said only: 'God's will be done.' All through that long, hard fight to keep starvation from the door, when I saw my little children crying at times with cold and hunger, and watched my husband slowly dying and was unable to give him any of those little comforts and luxuries which the sick require, my only words were: 'His holy will be done.' But in this, the worst of all the trials that have come to me, when I see my boy drifting away from us all, turning his back on God and his religion and wandering away night after night with careless, jovial companions, intent only on the pursuits of pleasure and folly; God help me, I simply cannot bow my head and say: 'God's will be done'"; and tears streamed unheeded from the mother's eyes.

The girl stepped quickly to her mother's side and drew the gray head gently to her shoulder, whispering comfortingly: "There, there, little mother, don't cry so. You are fretting yourself to death over Tim, and surely, surely, things will come right in the end. Tim is not a bad boy, mother dear, only a little wild just now. Remember how good he used to be, how kind, how helpful, in that hard time you were just speaking about. Remember how good he was when father died, and how young he was when he first went to work to help you support us all. Tim's a good boy at heart, mother, and he's bound to come back before long."

"Yes, dearie, that's what the Father says," returned her mother, slowly drying her eyes and rising to lay the girl's supper upon the table.

"He says not to worry but just pray, pray, pray, and Tim will surely come back before long. But there, dear, sit down and eat your supper; then we'll fill the children's stockings for I can guess what is in all those parcels you brought home. Poor little things, it would not be Christmas for them unless they hung their stockings. Thank God, I've always managed to find something to put into them if it was only an orange or an apple and a little candy. Indeed, that's about all it was when you and Tim were younger, but life is so much easier now that you are helping me."

"And it is going to be easier still, mother dear, and you will be the happiest little woman in the world one of these days. This wild spell of Tim's is bound to pass and then he will settle down and be his own old self again. There, dear," the girl continued, a few moments later; "my supper is finished and now I'll clear away these dishes and fill the children's stockings. Just see all the pretty things I've brought for them. Won't their little eyes dance when they see them! Then, mother dear, before we go to sleep, you and I will say the rosary for Tim. It is too late for him to go to confession to-night, but wherever he is, and God alone knows where he may be, he needs our prayers and he will have them. As the good Father said, we will pray, pray, pray. If we only pray hard enough and trust hard enough, things are bound to come right in the end."

The afternoon and evening had been unusually busy ones for Father Xavier. Hour after hour he had sat in the confessional listening to the tales of sin and sorrow that were poured into his ears. Hour after hour he had spent bestowing the priestly absolution on the repentant sinner, giving fatherly advice and consolation to the sorrowful, sending all those troubled souls away lighter and happier for his ministrations. Hour after hour he had waited, hoping against hope, for the sound of the one voice above all others which he most desired to hear.

In a town like that which formed Father Xavier's parish, the pastor is indeed the father of his flock. Every man, woman and child is known to him personally, and he takes a direct interest in each one's welfare. As Father Xavier sat that Christmas eve and listened to the confessions of his people, his heart grew sad and hope gradually died away as he waited in vain for the voice of one whom he was striving to bring back to God and to his duty.