son?"

Scipion showed him that picture--he had bought one for himself--the
dear old unmistakable back of "Papa Joffre," and the dear young
unmistakable faces of the two boys, Beloiseau and De l'Isle.

A talk followed, on the conflict between a father's pride and his
yearning to see his only son safely delivered from constant deadly
peril. They spoke of Aline. Not for the first time; Scipion, unaware
that the good father was her confessor also, had told him before of his
son's hopeless love, to ask if it was not right for him, the father, to
help Chester win the marvellous girl, since winning would win the two
boys home again.

Patterns waited while the ironworker said that to the tender chagrin of
all the coterie Chester was refused--a man of such fineness, such
promise, mind, charm, and integrity, and so fitted for her in years,
temperament, and tastes, that no girl, however perfect, could hope to
be courted by more than one such in a lifetime.

In brief Creole prose he struck the highest key of Shakespeare's
sonnets: "Was she not doing a grievous wrong to herself and Chester, to
the whole coterie that so adored her, especially to the De l'Isles and
himself, and even to society at large? Her reasons," he said, shifting
to English, "I can guess _at them_, but guessing at 'alf-a-dozen
convinze' me of none!"

"Have you guess' at differenze of rilligious faith?" the priest
inquired.

"Yes, but--nothing doing; I 'ave to guess no."

"Tha'z a great matter to a good Catholic."

"Ah, father! Or-_din_-arily, yes. Bud this time no. Any'ow, this
time tha'z not for us Catholic' to be diztress' ab-out. . . . Ah, yes,
chil'ren. But, you know? If daughter', they'll be of the faith and
conduc' of the mother; if son', faith of the mother, conduc' of the
father; and I think with that even you, pries' of God, be satizfie', eh?

"My dear frien', you know what I billieve? Me, I billieve in heaven
they are _waiting impatiently_ for that marriage."

The priest may have been professionally delinquent, but he chose to
leave the argument unrefuted. He smilingly looked at his watch.
"Well," he said, "I choose this design. Make it so. Good evening."
He turned away. Beloiseau called after him, but the man of God kept
straight on.

The ironworker loitered back to where the chosen pattern lay, and stood
over it still thinking of Chester. Presently a soft voice sounded so
close by that he turned abruptly. At his side was