Saint Patrick’s Day has come and is now fast waning.  The sun has sunk behind the chimney-stack of the New Albion dance-hall; the street lamps are lighted and are faintly contending against the dull glow of the late afternoon.

There is a lull between day and evening.  All day there has been a stir in the city.  There has been a procession in green sashes, with harps on the banners, — a long procession, in barouches, on horseback, and afoot.  There have been impassioned addresses before the Hibernian Society and the Saint Peter’s Young Men’s Irish Catholic Benevolent Association.  There has been more or less celebration in Ship Street.

The evening advances.  It is seven o’clock.  Strains of invitation issue from all the dance-halls.  Already the people have begun to file in to the Day-Star Mission.  The audience-room is on the street floor.  The missionary stands at the open door, with anxious smiles, urging decorum.  A knot of idlers on each side of the doorway, on the sidewalk, comment freely on him and on those who enter.  Every moment or two a policeman forces them back.

At a quarter of seven a preliminary praise-meeting begins.  Singing from within jars against the fiddling from over the way.  You hear at once “Come to Jesus just now!” and “Old Dan Tucker.”

Already the seats are filled, — eight in a settee; those who come now will have to stand.  Still, people continue to file in:  laborers, Portuguese sewing-women, two or three firemen in long-tailed coats and silver buttons, from Hook and Ladder Six, in the next block; gross-looking women, habitues of the Mission, with children; women who are habitues of no mission; prosperous saloon-keepers; one of the councilmen of the ward, — he is a saloon-keeper too.

Dr. Parsons’s train brought him to town in good season.  He passed in with other invited guests at the private door, and he has been upon the platform for ten minutes.  His daughter is beside him; ten or a dozen of his parishioners, who have come too, occupy seats directly in front.

The platform seats are nearly all taken; it is time to begin.  The street-door opens and a passage is made for a new-comer.  It is Mr. Martin.  A contingent from his church come with him and fill the few chairs that are still reserved about the desk.

Now all would appear to be ready; but there is still a few moments’ pause.  The missionary is probably completing some preliminary arrangements.  The audience sit in stolid expectation.

Dr. Parsons, from beneath his eyebrows, is studying the faces before him.  In this short time his address has entirely changed form in his mind.  It was simple as he had planned it; it must be simpler yet But he has felt the pulse of the people before him.  He feels that he can hold them, that he can stir them.

Meanwhile a whispered colloquy is going on, at the rear of the platform, between the missionary and the chairman of the committee for the evening.  The missionary appears to be explanatory and apologetic, the chairman flushed.  In a moment a hand is placed on Dr. Parsons’s shoulder.  He starts, half rises, and turns abruptly.

There has been, it seems, an unfortunate misunderstanding.  Through some mistake Mr. Martin has been asked to make the address upon the life of Saint Patrick, and has prepared himself with care.  He is one of the Mission’s most influential friends; his church is among its chief benefactors.  It is an exceedingly painful affair; but will Dr. Parsons give way to Mr. Martin?

So it is all over.  The Doctor takes his seat and looks out again upon those hard, dreary faces, — his no longer.  He has not realized until now how he has been looking forward to this evening.  But the vision has fled.  No ripples of uncouth laughter, no ready tears.  No reaching these dull, violated hearts through the Saint whom they adore:  that privilege is another’s.

But the chairman again draws near.  Will Dr. Parsons make the opening prayer?

The Doctor bows assent.  He folds his arms and closes his eyes.  You can see that he is trying to concentrate his thoughts in preparation for prayer.  It is doubtless hard to divert them from the swift channel in which they have been bounding along.

Now all is ready.  The missionary touches a bell, the signal for silence.

The Doctor rises.  For a moment he stands looking over the rows on rows of hardened faces, — looking on those whom he has so longed to reach.  He raises his hand; there is a dead silence, and he begins.

It was inevitable, at the outset, that he should refer to the occasion which had brought us together.  It was natural to recall that we were come to celebrate the birth of an uncommon man.  It was natural to suggest that he was no creature of story or ancient legend, floating about in the imagination of an ignorant people, but a real man like us, of flesh and blood.  It was natural to add that he was a man born centuries ago; that the scene of his labors was the green island across the sea, where many of us now present had first seen the light.  It was natural to give thanks for that godly life which had led three nations to claim the good man’s birthplace.  It was natural to suggest that if about the sweet memories of this man’s life fancy had fondly woven countless legends, we might, with a discerning eye, read in them all the saintly power of the man of God.  What though his infant hand may not have caused earthly waters to gush from the ground and heal the blindness of the ministering priest, nevertheless doth childhood ever call forth a well-spring of life, giving fresh sight to the blind, — to teacher and taught.

But why go on?  Who has not heard, again and again, the old-fashioned prayer wherein all is laid forth, in outline, but with distinctness!  We give thanks for this.  May this be impressed upon our hearts.  May this lead us solemnly to reflect.

The heart that is full must overflow, — if not in one way, then in another.

Mr. Martin has not been told about Dr. Parsons.  He sits and listens as the Doctor goes on in the innocence of his heart, pouring forth with warmth and fervor the life of the saint according to William Bullen Morris, Priest of the Oratory, — pouring forth in unmistakable detail Mr. Martin’s projected discourse.

The prayer is ended; a hymn is sung, and then the missionary presents to the audience the Rev. Mr. Martin, whom they are always delighted to hear; he will now address them upon the life of Saint Patrick.

Mr. Martin rises.  He takes a sip of water.  He coughs slightly.  He passes his handkerchief across his lips.  So far all is well.  But the prayer is in his mind.  Moreover, he unfortunately catches his wife’s eye, with a suggestion of suppressed merriment in it.

What does he say?  What can he say?  There are certain vague lessons from the saint’s virtues; some applications of what the Doctor has set forth; that is all.  Saint Patrick was sober; we should be sober.  Saint Patrick was kind; we should be kind.

Even his own parishioners admitted that he had not been “happy” on this particular occasion.

But at the close of the meeting Dr. Parsons received a compliment.  As he descended from the platform, Mr. John Keenan, who kept the best-appointed bar-room on the street, advanced to meet him.  Mr. Keenan was in an exceedingly happy frame of mind.  He grasped the Doctor’s hand.  “I wish, sir,” he said, with a fine brogue, “to congratulate you upon your very eloquent prayer.  It remind me, sir, — and I take pleasure to say it, — it remind me, sir, of the Honorable John Kelly’s noble oration on Daniel O’Connell.”

Late that evening the Doctor stood at his study-window, looking out for a moment before retiring to rest.  There was no light in the room, and the maps and the charts and the tall book-shelves were only outlines.  There was a glimmer from a farm-house two miles away, where they were watching with the dead.

The Doctor’s daughter came in with a light in her hand to bid her father good-night.

“What did you think, Pauline,” he said to her, “of Mr. Martin’s talk?” It had not been mentioned till now.

Pauline hardly knew what to think.  She knew that it was not what the Rev. Dr. Parsons would have given them!  But, honestly, what did her father think of it?

The Doctor mused for a moment; then he gave his judgment.  “I think,” he said, “that it showed a certain lack of preparation.”