“I have a little story you may like to tell Brother André. When I came home in November, I found a letter from a young friend I had not seen since he was in a perambulator. It was to ask my prayers for his mother who was dying from the effects of an accident. Her foot caught as she was going down a very steep flight of stairs to the Underground Railway, at Baker street, and she fell the whole length of it, hitting her head and one of her knees very badly. When she was conscious she was taken home, and for three or four days declared she was only severely bruised and shaken. Then suddenly she went clean out of her senses and knew no one and raved about people dead long ago, and she called for me in my maiden name, as I used to know her when I was a girl. It was that that put it into her son’s head to write to me that she was not supposed to live very long, and the doctors had very little hope of her. I was told she was in a mental hospital, and that she did not know her son when he went to see her. I asked permission to go there, and was given leave. They told me she could utter nothing but gibberish, and was very weak. When I came to her bedside, I would not have recognized her, but I looked straight into her eyes and told her I was ‘Alice.’ Then she caught my hand and held it convulsively, and her poor tongue and lips were uttering an incomprehensible jumble over and over again. At last I hit upon it; she was repeating over and over again a prayer in Polish her mother had taught her as a child. I recognized two of the words (her mother was a Pole, a Princess). . . I told the nurse she was saying a prayer in Polish and she was not able to say anything else. I sat by her for some time, and as her memory of years ago seemed to be the only workable part in her brain, I asked her in French was she suffering pain? And at once she responded and said ‘No, not at all,’ and then went off in the ejaculatory prayer. The nurse moved off, and I put my hand into my pocket and brought out Frère André’s little bottle of blessed oil, and I made the sign of the Cross with a little of the oil on her, and St. Joseph’s medal in my hand. And I just asked if there was any merit in Frère André’s prayers that this poor woman might be restored to health for her only son’s sake. I came away. The nurse thought it a bad case. I went to Ireland for three weeks, and on my return sent a ’phone message to the son, fearing he would tell me his mother was dead. But to my joy he said she had completely recovered, and was now at a rest home to get up her strength. Tell Brother André that. You must also tell him to pray for peace in Ireland.” All Faiths Among Patrons. You would be surprised if I were to tell you that, in proportion to the number that have applied, probably more Protestants than Roman Catholics have successfully procured aid at this now well-known shrine. And yet it is true.