ndeed,
dear Father, but one which even your strong hand could not control."

"I have heard you," said the priest; "but you will see. He is coming
now."

There was a knock at the door; then it opened and showed a modest
novice in a simple gown of black serge girt at the waist with the flat
encircling band. His head was downward; it was not till the blue eyes
flashed inquisitively up that Father Anthony recognized Pierre.

The hard voice of Jean Paul Victor pronounced: "This is that Father
Anthony of whom I have spoken."

The novice slipped to his knees and folded his hands. The two priests
exchanged glances, one of triumph and one of wonder, while the plump
fingers of Father Anthony poised over that dark red hair, pressed
smooth on top where the skull-cap rested, and curling somewhat at the
sides. The blessing which he spoke was Latin, and Father Victor looked
somewhat anxiously toward his protege till the latter answered in a
diction so pure that Cicero himself would have smiled to hear it:

"Father, I thank thee, and if my mind were as old as thine I might be
able to wish blessings as great as these in return."

"Stand up!" cried Father Anthony. "By Heavens, Jean Paul, it is the
purest Latin I have heard this twelvemonth."

And the lad answered: "It must be pure Latin; Father Victor has taught
me."

Gabrielle Anthony stared, and to save him from too obvious confusion
the other priest interrupted: "I have a letter for you, my son."

And he passed the envelope to Pierre. The latter examined it with
interest.

"The writing sprawls like the knees of a boy of ten. What old man has
written to you, Pierre?"

"No man that I know. This comes from the south. It is marked from the
United States."

"So far!" exclaimed the tall priest. "Give me the letter, lad."

But here he caught the whimsical eyes of Father Anthony, and he allowed
his outstretched hand to fall. Yet he scowled as he said: "No; keep it
and read it, Pierre."

"I have no great wish to keep it," answered Pierre, studying anxiously
the dark brow of the priest.

"It is yours. Open it and read."

The lad obeyed instantly. He shook out the folded paper and moved a
little nearer the light. Then he read aloud, as if it had never
entered his mind that what was addressed to him might be meant for his
eyes alone. And as he read he reminded Father Anthony of some childish
chorister pronouncing words beyond his understanding. The tears came