"Agnes."
"Now, some of you may not know the story about her . . . " There were several questioning sounds and the group fell silent. "This is what happened. About seventy years ago, there was a knock at the door of the church. It was a wild rainy morning, and the Father asked one of the nuns to see who it was. She opened the door. No one was there—only a basket. She brought the basket in out of the rain and said 'it's a baby, Father! All wrapped in a sheet.'
"The Father thought. 'We must take care of it,' he said. 'Is it—a boy or a girl?'
"The nun bent over, unwrapped the baby, and said, 'A girl, Father, bless her.'
"'She must have a name,' Father said. 'She is a child of God. That we know. Agnes will be her name.' He looked at the window and said, 'It's not much of a day out. We will call her, Agnes Grayborn.' So the nuns took her and raised her, and Agnes has worked all her life for the church.
"And now, boys, we've had to sell the building where Agnes lives. She has no place to go." Voices raised and mumbled. A hand came up, halfway down the group.
"I gotta small place in one of mine. I'll take care of it. Least we can do."
"Thanks, Tony."
"Yes!" Clapping.
"Agnes!" Glasses were held up.