The Supply at Saint Agatha's
As Saturday night drew on, and the stars came out, he was heard to make such efforts to speak articulately, that one of his weeping people (an affectionate woman of a brighter wit than the rest) made out, as she bent lovingly over him, to understand so much as this:
"Lord," he said, "into thy hands I commit my s-p--"
"He commits his spirit to the Lord!" sobbed the landlady.
But the listening parishioner raised her finger to her lips.
"Lord," he said again, and this time the dullest ear in the parish could have heard the words--"Lord," he prayed, "into thy hands I commit--my supply."
Sunday morning broke upon the city as cold and clear as the sword of a rebuking angel. People on the way to the West End churches exchanged notes on the thermometer, and talked of the destitution of the poor. It was so cold that the ailing and the aged for the most part stayed at home. But the young, the