ears were
falling from his eyes, he wiping them away in the same matter-of-fact
fashion which had marked his ministrations to the unfortunate fireman.

"Death is terrible only to those who love," he added, and the words sent
a pang into the heart of Horace. It had never occurred to him that death
was love's most dreaded enemy,--that Sonia might die while love was
young.

CHAPTER II.

THE NIGHT AT THE TAVERN.

The travelers of the wrecked train spent the night at the nearest
village, whither all went on foot before darkness came on. Monsignor
took possession of Horace, also of the affections of the tavern-keeper,
and of the best things which belonged to that yokel and his hostelry. It
was prosperity in the midst of disaster that he and Endicott should have
a room on the first floor, and find themselves comfortable in ten
minutes after their arrival. By the time they had enjoyed a refreshing
meal, and discussed the accident to the roots, Horace Endicott felt that
his soul was at ease with the Monsignor, who at no time had displayed
any other feeling than might arise from a long acquaintance with the
young man. One would have pronounced the two men, as they settled down
into the comfort of their room, two collegians who had traveled much
together.

"It was an excellent thing that I brought the holy oils along,"
Monsignor said, as if Endicott had no other interest in life than this
particular form of excellence. To a polite inquiry he explained the
history, nature, and use of the mysterious oils.

"I can understand how a ceremony of that kind would soothe the last
hours of Tim Hurley," said the pagan Endicott, "but I am curious, if you
will pardon me, to know if the holy oils would have a similar effect on
Monsignor O'Donnell."

"The same old supposition," chuckled the priest, "that there is one law
for the crowd, the mob, the diggers, and another for the illuminati.
Now, let me tell you, Mr. Endicott, that with all his faith Tim Hurley
could not have welcomed priest and oils more than I shall when I need
them. The anguish of death is very bitter, which you are too young to
know, and it is a blessed thing to have a sovereign ready for that
anguish in the Sacrament of Extreme Unction. The Holy Oils are the thing
which Macbeth desired when he demanded so bitterly of the physician.

Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow?

That is my conviction. So if you