After such overwhelming sorrow, surely they needed the tenderest sympathy; but only a few days elapsed before the parish priest (who had, years before, tried to get their Bible away) called on them, and, after a few cold words, he said that something was owing for the prayers that had been offered for the departed, and he would be glad to receive it! Poor Mrs. Chiniquy assured him that, although her husband had received a considerable income as a notary, yet their expenses had been so heavy that he had left her little besides debts. The house he had had built, and the piece of land he purchased not long ago, were only half paid for, "and I fear," said she, "I shall lose them both. I hope, sir," she added, "that you are not the man to take away from us our last piece of bread." "But, madam," was the cruel answer, "the money for the masses offered for the rest of your husband's soul must be paid!" For some time the widow sat shedding silent tears. At length she raised her tearful eyes, and said, "Sir, you see that cow in the meadow? Her milk, and the butter made from it, form the principal part of my children's food. I hope you will not take her away from us. If, however, such a sacrifice must be made to deliver my poor husband's soul from purgatory, take her as the payment of the masses to be offered to extinguish those devouring flames." "Very well, madam," said the priest, rising, and walking out. They anxiously watched to see what he would do; and, to their horror, he went straight to the meadow and drove away their useful and cherished favourite. Poor Mrs. Chiniquy nearly fainted; and when able to speak, she said-- "Dear child, if ever you become a priest, never be so hard-hearted towards poor widows as are the priests of to-day." Those words were never forgotten, as our next story will show. Many years had passed. The child had become a man and a priest, when he was invited to preach a course of three sermons in the church of a rich curate. On the second day, walking with him to the parsonage, a very poor, ragged, and miserable man took off his hat, and tremblingly addressed the curate, saying-- "You know, sir, that my poor wife died, and was buried ten days ago; but I was too poor to have a funeral service sung for her, and I fear she is in purgatory. Almost every night I see her in my dreams in burning flames, and she cries to me to help her. Will you be so kind as to sing that high mass for her?" "Of course," answered the curate. "Your wife is suffering in purgatory. Give me five dollars, and I will sing the mass to-morrow morning." The poor man replied that his wife had long been ill, and he was too distressed to pay the money, and begged that five low masses might be said for her. The priest told him he must pay five shillings for them, but the wretched man declared he had no money, and that he and his children were starving.