and the little bell tinkled—the bell that had been like the bell of a leper these years past.
"But you live, and you have years yet before you, in the providence of God. Luc Pomfrette, you blasphemed against your baptism, and horribly against God himself. Luc"—his voice got softer—"I knew your mother, and she was almost too weak to hold you when you were baptised, for you made a great to-do about coming into the world. She had a face like a saint—so sweet, so patient. You were her only child, and your baptism was more to her than her marriage even, or any other thing in this world. The day after your baptism she died. What do you think were her last words?"
There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette’s face, and his eyes were intense and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Curé.
"I can’t think any more," answered Pomfrette slowly. "I’ve no head."
"What she said is for your heart, not for your head, Luc," rejoined the Curé gently. "She wandered in her mind, and at the last she raised herself up in her bed, and lifting her finger like this"—he made the gesture of benediction—"she said, ‘Luc Michée, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’ Then she whispered softly: ‘God bless my dear Luc Michée! Holy Mother pray for him!’ These were her last words, and I took you from her arms. What have you to say, Luc Michée?"
The woman in the gallery was weeping silently behind her thick veil, and her worn hand clutched the desk in front of her convulsively. Presently she arose and made her way down the stair, almost unnoticed.
