"I have forgotten the man's name. I have never seen the old priest,
before or since. But, sometime, a painter will turn to the railroad
life. When he does, I may see from his hand such a picture as I saw at
that moment--the night, the storm, the scant hair of the priest blown
in the gale, the men bared about him; the hush of the death moment; the
wrinkled hand raised in the last benediction."