ppose." Then opening the kitchen door, she stepped into the welcome
warmth and light of home.

"Well, little mother," she cried cheerily; "here I am at last, and I
suppose you thought I was never coming. You see, dear, we had to work
very late to-night to finish a large order. Then there was confession
and I was delayed there quite a while. I was almost the last to be heard
and it was considerably after ten by the time I left the church.
Everyone in town seemed to be going to confession to-night."

"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