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But for a whim, perhaps, she had come at last without asking, and as a consequence Luc returned to the world, a mere bundle of bones.

It was still while he was only a bundle of bones that one Sunday morning, Parpon, without a word, lifted him up in his arms and carried him out of the house. Pomfrette did not speak at first: it seemed scarcely worth while; he was so weak he did not care.

“Where are you going?” he said at last, as they came well into the village. The bell in St. Saviour’s had stopped ringing for Mass, and the streets were almost empty.

“I’m taking you to Mass,” said Parpon, puffing under his load, for Pomfrette made an ungainly burden. “Hand of a little devil, no!” cried Pomfrette, startled. “I said I’d never go to Mass again, and I never will.

“You said you’d never go to Mass till you were carried; so it’s all right.”

Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying:

“It’s no use; you must come; we’ve had enough. Besides–“

“Besides what?” asked Pomfrette faintly. “Never mind,” answered Parpon.

At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton cleared a way through the aisle, making a stir, through which the silver bell at Pomfrette’s knee tinkled, in answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte’s bell in the sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women stopped telling their beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting. A strange feeling passed through the church, and reached and startled the Cure as he recited the Mass. He turned round and saw Parpon laying Pomfrette down at the chancel steps. His voice shook a little as he intoned the ritual, and as he raised the sacred elements tears rolled down his cheeks.

From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her.

At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. “What is it, Parpon?” he asked gravely.

“It is Luc Pomfrette, M’sieu’ le Cure.” Pomfrette’s eyes were closed.

“He swore that he would never come to Mass again,” answered the good priest.

“Till he was carried, M’sieu’ le Cure–and I’ve carried him.”

“Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc Pomfrette?” asked the Cure.

“I did not know I was coming–no.” Pomfrette’s brown eyes met the priest’s unflinchingly.

“You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life.”

“I’d rather have died,” answered the sick man simply.

“Died, and been cast to perdition!”

“I’m used to that; I’ve had a bad time here in Pontiac.”

His thin hands moved restlessly. His leg moved, 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 Cure.

“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 Cure 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 Michele, 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 Michee! Holy Mother pray for him!’ These were her last words, and I took you from her arms. What have you to say, Luc Michee?”