And here it is necessary to record certain things which led up to this—to Peter—most extraordinary of meetings: things which those who do not believe in the miracles wrought by love and prayer might regard as almost incredible coincidences.  
One afternoon, it was in the week between Christmas and the New Year, Father O’Sullivan was in the Westminster Hospital. He had been with a sick man for the last half-hour or so, cheering him on his high-road to recovery. He had only just left him—he was, in fact, in the corridor—when a nursing Sister, a Catholic, came up to him.
 
“Father,” she said, “there’s a man—a gentleman—who would like to see you; he’s a Catholic and dying. I asked him to let me send for a priest yesterday, and again to-day, but he refused. A few moments ago, however, I happened to mention your name and say that you were in the hospital. He asked me then to fetch you.”
 
“Ah!” said Father O’Sullivan, smoothing his chin, as was the way with him—if he had worn a beard he would have been stroking it; “where is he?”
 
“In here, Father.” And she led the way through a ward, and into a small room that opened out of it.
 
Father O’Sullivan looked at the man lying on the bed. His eyes were closed, and his face almost deathly pale against the red coverlet which was pulled up to his chin.
 
Father O’Sullivan sat down by the bedside. The man opened his eyes and looked at him.
 
“Well, Father,” he said, with a faint attempt at a smile.
 
And then, in spite of the pallor, the thinness, Father O’Sullivan recognized him. He saw in him a man he had known from boyhood, one who had attended his confessional, though for about six years he had entirely lost sight of him.
 
 
“Hugh Ellerslie!” exclaimed he.
 
“You remember me?” said Hugh.
 
“Of course, of course,” replied Father O’Sullivan, “though it’s six years or thereabouts since I saw you.”
 
“I know,” said Hugh wearily. “I want to talk to you, Father. They tell me I’m dying.”
 
“Well, now,” said the old priest compassionately, “and if that’s so, isn’t it a good thing I’m here to help you make your peace, to have you tell me what it is is troubling you?”
 
For a moment Hugh was silent,
 
“I’ve a confession to make, Father,” he said presently. The Sister moved towards the door.
 
“No,” said Hugh, “don’t go. How long have I got to live?”
 
“Some hours at least,” said the Sister gently.
 
Hugh smiled. “Well, you’d better both hear what I’ve got to say. It won’t take long, but I can think of nothing else till I’ve said it. Perhaps you, Sister, will write down what is necessary. I can sign it presently, and, at all events, there will be two witnesses.”
 
At a sign from Father O’Sullivan the nurse crossed to the other side of the bed.
 
 
“Now, my son,” said Father O’Sullivan quietly, tenderly.
 
“I have let another man suffer instead of me,” said Hugh steadily. “His name—please get that down clearly, Sister—is Peter Carden.”
 
Father O’Sullivan did not move, but he drew a long breath. And there are some people who say that the age of miracles is past!
 
“There’s no need to enter into all particulars,” went on Hugh; “it would mean rather complicated business details that really don’t signify. But get this down clearly. About five or six years ago, Peter Carden was accused of forgery and embezzlement. He was put on his trial and pleaded guilty. He got three years in Portland Gaol. He was innoce............