It was the Holy Sacrament of the Lord's Supper, the last supper such as the sick unto death partake of.
The priest stood in front of the table on which the wine and the bread were.

Karpathy, with Christian humility, approached the sacred elements, the others stood around in silence.

Then the priest communicated him in their presence, and, after the simple ceremony was over, the old man said to the priest-- "In no very long time, I shall see the happier country face to face.

If you hear that I am sick, say no prayers in church for my recovery,--it would be useless; pray rather for my new life.

And now let us go to my son." "To my son!" What feeling, what pathos was in that one phrase: "To my son!" All who were present followed him, and surrounded the child's cradle.
The little thing looked gravely at all those serious manly faces, as if it also would have made one of them.