The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1883-07-04

him. Father Callaghan came to st. Mar
| tins to attend the funeral, and has remained
at the convent ever since. 1t is now two
years since the Archbishop has been able to
walk unassisted, and during all that time he
has required constant care, and the most
tireless attention, This wearisome work
has been shared by Father Callaghan and
Sister Louise, to whom he modestly ascribes
all the credit. One or the other of them is
always at his side and he is never for even
moment left alone. The two take turns in
sitting up with him on alternate nights, and
they are assisted in this work by Father
Bowe, one of the local chaplains.
Sister Louise-there is a sweet and gentle
sound in her very name-s one of the most
devoted of women. Among the town people
OF st. Martins she is known for her kindly
heart and her tireless zeal in helping Others.
The reporter saw her yesterday standing in
the window of the ArchbiShops room, and
seldom has he seen more striking face. The
features are intellectual and the lines are
sharply drawn, telling of night vigils and
weary days of watching. Her eyes are large
and bright, and they have a far-away look as
though the soul within was lifted entirely
from self and had glorious glimpse of the
celestial realms beyond the narrow limits of
this world. She never tires in her care OF
the Archbishop, and her cheerful presence
lmparts peasant aspect to the slck-room.
1t is she who arranges the flowers and gives
those deft touches to the apartment which
woman alone can do, and which so eff
fecsually removes all stiffness and formality,
replacing them with an inviting home-like
aspect. In speaking of the Archbishop, Sis
ter Louise is on every tongue, and all who
know her refer in the highest terms to her
matchless power of doing good She is, in
deed, saint among saints.
These two watchers, the mild-mannered
ard sweet-hearted nun and Father Gala
CHAN, for days have gone without regular
sleep, and have only snatched a mouthful of
food now and then, barely enough to sustain
life. 81 will always serve my Archbishop"
said Father Callaghan, until he requires
my earthly services no longer" And in
spite of the fact that his devotion to the aged
prelate is unoeasing, he persists in saying;
1.-The good sister does fifty times the work
that l do"
the villagers, yesterday, in speaking of the
watchers, would have died long ago if it
hadn't been for them two. They just won't
low him to die. And they do say that fore
Sister Louise took the the veil people were
saying she would never make nun. Peo-
pie can't always tell what is going to
happen"
While those about the convent know that
Archbishop Purcell must soon die, it is a
source of regret that ne could not have lived
few months longer On the 1GtiI of Octo-
Der, 1888, he was made bishop, and if he
could live but for three months he would
have FILED the office for half century Few
are the prelates that have ever done this, and
there has never been an instance of the kind
in America, and none in this country have
come as near to it as the Archbishop. He
has lived into the year. and now it seems
hard that he cannot complete it. If by any
chance he should survive until Oct 10, it
would be made the occasion of great reioic
ing in all the Catholic churches in the prov
ince, which embraces part or all COT four
States. The prelate himself had looked for
ward expectantly to the event. but now all
his hopes, and the hopes of his clergy and
people, seem likely to prove futile.
In the little cemetery attached to the con-
vent are the graves of the Archbishop's
mother. sister and beloved brother, and he
was never tired of visiting the green mounds.
There is vacant space between the first two
graves, that is designed for him, and there he
frequently prayed. Father Callaghan very
often took him to the spot, which is only a
few yards distant, in his wheeled chair, and
the Archbishop was fond of musing at the
place, and recalling old memories of those
who slept so quietly beneath the sod. Only
few days before he was taken sick he paid
visit to the cemetery, and pointing to the
vacant space, said TO his friend: 81 am to
be buried there" He frequently spoke of
death, but never with the least apprehension;
rather with anticipation. His life had been
lived, his work had been DONE. and he was
ready to go whenever the Master called. To
him the thought of death was, as it is to the
prisoner, the thought of bursting his bars
and breathing the boundless air of freedom.
He regarded it as happy release--a thing to
be desired-and when it comes he will meet
it gladly.