The Hancock Jeffersonian. [volume] (Findlay, Ohio) 1857-1870, 1868-03-27
.Good, NV name is Blcndear

lou are right, my dear Horace.
will relate to you my grievances, an(
f then you shall tell me yours. VIII,
a knows, if nothing else comes of oul
! mutual condolences, perchance Heav.
e en- may suggest some good counsel
, Yes, yes,' exclaimed Horace
, shaking the old mans hand. 'Wht
, knows but that some sweet pleasure
! may arise from the confidence we re.
' pose in one another?
'And now, my child, / well tell You
my history in two words, said the
. cure.
q Horace sat with his elbows on the
> table contemplating the features OF
the old man, animated by an angelic
expression.
You must know, then, my young
friend, that l came TO Paris in glad
ness of heart to inherit a small leg
acy,-two thousand francs. You see,
it was not much, and if l return sor-
rowfnlly to my village it is because
the legacy has slipped through my
fingers, made away with by a hshon-
+ est man, who kew that in committing
a bad action it was Heaven he was
robbing rather than humble pastor,
for he was well aware that the money
was destined for the service of God
A tear moistened the eye OF the
venerable priest.
But said Horace, you have, at
least, exposed the villany of the
man 2
1 The cure shook his head.
1T would have been of no use
The man has gone away; and even if
found, it is not likely that the money
would be recovered. Besides, i
found that he had left behind him q
wife and children in state of desti-
tuition. 1t was enough that they
4 should be unfortunate without dis
honoring them, so, you understand, 1
on the contrary, cOnsoled them as
best / could by mingling my tears
with theirs
'And by opening your purse to
them too, good father; l have no
doubt of it?'
We'll, that was quite natural. They
actually wanted bread. And that is
my history, my young friend. / re-
turn as came, with this exception, /
had hopes when l started, | have
none now
But, COOL father, would if be in
discreet to ask you what you intend
ed to do with the two thousand francs
which You came in quest OFF
Had / obtained the two thousand
francs replied the cure, 'it was my
intention to have repaired the church
steeple, which, in fact, only holds by
a thread, aud then to have built a
good wall all round the cemetery. in
place Of the wooden palings which
are failing to pieces. l should have
been so happy to see the dear depart
ed resting in quiet beneath the soil
that / have blessed
/ The old man wiped away another
tear. Horace fell difficulty in re-
pressing his emotion.
'And then,' continued the cure,
signing deeply, Il had dreamed even
of a further acquisition, thanks TO my
inexhaustible two thousand francs.
iThe church of Flenry does not possess
single picture,--not Madonna, not
one portrait of a saint,-and rich as
1 deemed myself about to bel know
such things are by no means neces-
sary for prayer,-but still, you see, a
picture over the high altar would
have been a great JOY to me-
And again the worthy old priest
remained for moment or two buried
in the deep grief awakened by regrets
that all his fond hopes had been alb
ruptly wrecked. Horace, on his side,
was wrapped in silent reflection
Rousing himself at last, he took the
old man by the hand.
Come, father he said, do not give
way to grief. AS to the rebuilding
of your steeple and the erection of a
wall, are there no means among your
parishioners p
The cure shook his head.
There are six hundred parishion-
ers,' he said, 'and they are all as poor
as their cure. There is one among
them who, if he chose,-he is bull
der, well to-do, nay, wealthy, he
could do it at half price,-that miser
Poupillicr All he has no sympathy
+, for either church or cure, or, fear,
even for the God whose worship they
propitiate.'
%. his name is Poupillier, is it 2
said Horace, rising up.
'Aro you going p exclaimed the
priest. MY story has wearied you
j And you promised to conlide to me
your troubles toor
y have not forgotten, father, and
/, will keep my promise on some 9th
f er occasion
Some other occasion? But, my
dear young friend, l leave Paris this
very evening at nine O'clock
AT nine O'clock? And by what
E diligence p
u sBy that of the Rue du Bouloi. Close
by. That is why dined here
well, then, have proposition tC
make to you, said Horace, bowine
to the old cure. This is it. l an
! an artist, as / have told you. Moth
p ing detains me for the moment a
| Paris. / will just go home to ge
r what is necessary to paint with, ant
: small change of clothes, and at nin'
q o'clock l will meet you at the Office
o in the Rue du Rouloi. We will &C
| together to Fieury sur fAndelle
D And in q months time,-ah, yot
a must feed me for that extent OF time
father; but eat and drink discreetly
e as you have seen,-and in month
4 If your steeple is not repaired, and i
: your dear dead ones do not sleeE
e TRANQUILITY behind good wall, wei
: at all events, you shall have pic
8 ture,--a saint or Madonna, as yo'
!, determine,-for an altar piece. Tha
II / promise you. And who knows i
the picture may not bring the churci
II good luck: perchance Master Poa
: Dilier may feel his honor concerned
in doing good work likewise. Now
, father dear, what do you say to m.
!, proposal2 Does it meet your views
y Will you take me with your
All the time that Horace had beel
speaking, the aged cure, who had go
. up from his chair, had never takel
n n his sparkling eyes off him. AS h