By MAX JORDAN
The barracks were crowded with refugees from the East, Germans who had lost everything, men, women and children, destitute people without hope. It was getting cold outside and the blankets were scarce. Catholic Charities was in charge, but their means, too, were limited.
On a wooden stretcher a man was resting, his eyes closed. A nurse stood by him. You could see that she did not know what to do. This clearly was a case where no doctor
could help any more. It was a matter of hours before the poor fellow would pass away.
The camp physician had just left, shrugging his shoulders, and now everybody was looking at this patient—a hopeless crowd at a hopeless man,
Suddenly a little girl, about six
years-old, stepped up to him. "1 want to help you," she said. The sick man did not seem to bear her.
Our Father, who are iA heaven. . ." the little girl began to pray.
Now the patient looked up, opening his tired, suffering eyes. He
noticed the girl and smiled. His lips seemed to move.
" Our Father, who art in weakly. " Hallowed be • Thy name. . . " continued the child, kneeling at his side.
The patient fell in with her, and now all the others, too, joined and soon they were saying the Rosary.
No one had been able to help, but the little girl had found a way. By prayer she had shown the way to Heaven to a dying man.