signor's face, and removed the rest of his person from the
Monsignor's body, in order the more politely to invite him to the
battle. Then he discovered the state of things in general. The
overthrown car was at a stand-still. That no one was hurt seemed happily
clear from the vigorous yells of everybody, and the fine scramble
through the car-windows. The priest got up leisurely and felt himself.
Next he seized his satchel eagerly.

"Now it was more than an accident that I brought the holy oils along,"
said he to Horace. "I was vexed to find them where they shouldn't be,
yet see how soon I find use for them. Someone must be badly hurt in this
disaster, and of course it'll be one of my own."

"I hope," said the other politely, "that I did you no harm in falling on
you. I could not very well help it."

"Fortune was kinder to you than if the train rolled over the other way.
Don't mention it, my son. I'll forgive you, if you will find me the way
out, and learn if any have been injured."

The window was too small for a man of the Monsignor's girth, but through
the rear door the two crawled out comfortably, Monsignor dragging the
satchel and murmuring cheerfully: "How lucky! the holy oils!" It was
just sundown, and the wrecked train lay in a meadow, with a pretty
stream running by, whose placid ripplings mocked the tumult of the
mortals examining their injuries in the field. Yet no one had been
seriously injured. Bruises and cuts were plentiful, some fainted from
shock, but each was able to do for himself, not so much as a bone having
been broken. For a few minutes the Monsignor rejoiced that he would have
no use for what he called the holy oils. Then a trainman came running,
white and broken-tongued, crying out: "There was a priest on the
train--who has seen him?" It turned out that the fireman had been caught
in the wrecked locomotive, and crushed to death.

"And it's a priest he's cryin' for, sir," groaned the trainman, as he
came up to the Monsignor. The dying man lay in the shade of some trees
beside the stream, and a lovely woman had his head in her lap, and wept
silently while the poor boy gasped every now and then "mother" and "the
priest." She wiped the death-dew from his face, from which the soot had
been washed with water from the stream, and moistened his lips with a
cordial. He was a youth, of the kind that should not die too early, so
vigorous was his young body, so manly and true his dear face; but it was
on