“Ah, yes; Sister Winifred has zem—­” he held out his hand, spread the fingers apart, and slowly, gently closed them.  “Comme ca.”

“But what’s the good of it if Brother Paul—­”

“Ah, it is not just zere Paul comes in.  But I tell you, my son, Paul does a work here no ozzer man has done so well.”

“He is a flint—­a fanatic.”

“Fanatique!” He flung out an expressive hand.  “It is a name, my son.  It often means no more but zat a man is in earnest.  Out of such a ‘flint’ we strike sparks, and many a generous fire is set alight.  We all do what we can here at Holy Cross, but Paul will do what we cannot.”

“Well, give me—­” He was on the point of saying “Father Wills,” but changed it to “a man who is tolerant.”

“Tolerant?  Zere are plenty to be tolerant, my son.  Ze world is full.  But when you find a man zat can care, zat can be ’fanatique’—­ah!  It is”—­he came a little nearer—­“it is but as if I would look at you and say, ‘He has earnest eyes!  He will go far whatever road he follow.’” He drew off, smiling shrewdly.  “You may live, my son, to be yourself called ‘fanatique.’  Zen you will know how little—­”

“I!” the Boy broke in.  “You are pretty wide of the mark this time.”

“Ah, perhaps!  But zere are more trails zan ze Yukon for a fanatique.  You have zere somesing to show me?”

“I promised the girl that cried so—­I promised her to bring the Sister this.”  He had pulled out the picture.  In spite of the careful wrapping, it had got rather crumpled.  The Father looked at it, and then a swift glance passed between him and the Boy.

“You could see it was like pulling out teeth to part with it.  Can it go up there till the Sister sends for it?”

Father Brachet nodded, and the gorgeous worldling, counselling all men to “Smoke Kentucky Leaf!” was set up in the high place of honour on the mantel-shelf, beside a print of the Madonna and the Holy Child.  Nicholas cheered up at this, and Ol’ Chief stopped wiping his eyes.  While the Boy stood at the mantel with his back to Father Brachet, acting on a sudden impulse, he pulled the ivory pen-rest out of his shirt, and stuck its various parts together, saying as he did so, “She sent an offering to you, too.  If the Ol’ Chief an’ I fail to convince you of our penitence, we’re all willin’ to let this gentleman plead for us.”  Whereupon he wheeled round and held up the Woeful One before the Father’s eyes.

The priest grasped the offering with an almost convulsive joy, and instantly turned his back that the Pymeuts might not see the laugh that twisted up his humorous old features.  The penitents looked at each other, and telegraphed in Pymeut that after all the Boy had come up to time.  The Father had refused the valuable lynx-skin and Nicholas’ superior spoon, but was ready, it appeared, to look with favour on anything the Boy offered.

But very seriously the priest turned round upon the Pymeuts.  “I will just say a word to you before we wash and go in to supper.”  With a kindly gravity he pronounced a few simple sentences about the gentleness of Christ with the ignorant, but how offended the Heavenly Father was when those who knew the true God descended to idolatrous practices, and how entirely He could be depended upon to punish wicked people.