“Five years!” he repeated.  “Oh, my boy, my dear boy, what are five years to pay for such a treasure as that which has come into your possession tonight?  Five short years—­only five.  And she waiting for you, proud of you for those very achievements which sent you to prison, planning for all the future that lies beyond those five short years, growing sweeter and more beautiful for you as she waits—­Roger, is that a very great sacrifice?  Is it too great a price to pay?  Five years, and after that—­peace, love, happiness for all time?  Is it, Roger?”

McKay felt his voice tremble as he tried to answer.

“But she, father—­”

“Yes, yes, I know what you would say,” interrupted Father John gently.  “I argued with her, just as you would have argued, Roger.  I appealed to her reason.  I told her that if you returned it would mean prison for you, and strangely I said that same thing—­five years.  But I found her selfish, Roger, very selfish—­and set upon her desire beyond all reason.  And it was she who asked first those very questions I have asked you tonight.  ‘What are five years?’ she demanded of me, defying my logic.  ’What are five years—­or ten—­or twenty, if I know I am to have him after that?’ Yes, she was selfish, Roger.  Just that great is her love for you.”

“Dear God in Heaven,” breathed Jolly Roger, and stopped, his eyes staring wide at the stars.

“And after that, after I had given in to her selfishness, Roger, she planned how we—­she and I—­would live very near to the place where they imprisoned you, and how each day some sight or sign should pass between you, and the baby—­”

“The baby, Father?”

“Thus it seems she dreams, Roger.  She, in the wilfulness of her desire and selfishness—­”

With a choking cry Roger bowed his face in his hands.

For a moment Father John was silent.  And then he said, so very low that it was almost a whisper,

“I have passed many years in the wilderness, Roger, many years trying to look into the hearts of people—­and of God.  And this—­ this love of Nada’s—­is the greatest of all the miracles I have witnessed in a life that is now reaching to its three score and five.  Do you see the wonder of it, son?  And does it make you happy, and fearless now?”

He did not wait for an answer, but turned slowly and went in the direction of the cabin, leaving Roger alone under the thickening stars.  And McKay’s face was like Father John’s, filled with a strange and wonderful radiance when he looked up.  But with that light of happiness was also the fiercer underglow of a great determination.  For Nada—­for the baby—­the worst should not happen; he breathed the thought aloud, and in the words was a prayer that God might help him, and make unnecessary the sacrifice from which Father John had taken the sting of fear.  And yet, if that sacrifice came, he saw clearly now that it would not be a great tragedy but only a brief shadow cast over the undying happiness in his soul.  For they—­Nada and the baby—­would be waiting—­waiting—­