robe a letter. His marvelously lean fingers touched it almost with a caress, and when he spoke the softening which could not appear in the rigid features came into his voice and made it lower and deeper.
"One,"
Father Anthony started in astonishment, as one might start to hear a divine prophet admit a mistake, but being wise he remained silent, waiting. Jean Paul Victor peered into space.
"Pierre Ryder. He is like a pleasant summer, and I"—he clasped his colorless hands—"am frozen—frozen to the heart."
Still Father Anthony waited, but his eyes were like diamonds for brightness.
"He shall carry on my mission in the north. I, who am silent, have done much; but Pierre sings, and he will do more. I had to fight my first battle to conquer my own stubborn soul, and the battle left me weak for the great work in the snows, but Pierre will not fight that battle, for I have trained him."
He repeated after a pause: "For those who sing forget themselves and their weariness. I, Jean Paul Victor, have never sung."
He bowed his head, submitting to the judgment of God.
"This letter is for him. Shall we not carry it to him? For two days I have not seen Pierre."
Father Anthony winced.
He said: "Do you deny yourself even the pleasure of the lad's company? Alas, Father Victor, you forge your own spurs and goad yourself with your
