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 to the eyes of the good father.
And he said in his heart: "Alas! I have been too much in the world of men, and now a child can teach me."
The musical voice of the boy began:
"Morgantown,
"R. F. D. No. 4.
"Son Pierre:
"Here I lie with a chunk of lead from the gun of Bob McGurk resting somewheres in the insides of me, and there ain't no way of doubting that I'm about to go out. Now, I ain't complaining none. I've had my fling. I've eat my meat to order, well done and rare—mostly rare. Maybe some folks will be saying that I've got what I've been asking for, and I know that Bob McGurk got me fair and square, shooting from the hip. That don't help me none, lying here with a through ticket to some place that's farther south than Texas."
Pierre lowered the letter and looked gravely upon Father Victor.
"There are blasphemies coming. Shall I read on?"
"Yes."
He began again, a little spot of red coming into either cheek:
