Waylao, who listened more to the music of that old voice than to what it actually said, stood like an obedient child as the priest proceeded:
“Listen, Waylao. Many paths have evil-smelling flowers by the wayside; some paths have sweet-scented blossoms; and is it not best to follow the sweeter path—to drink the pure waters of the singing brook, bathe in the seas of holiness and avoid those dismal swamps of pestilence wherefrom they who drink shall find only bitterness?”
Seeing Waylao’s earnest attention, he continued with tremulous voice, for he was a religious man and not a bigot:
“And, my child, if indeed all paths should happen to be stumbling-blocks that lead, in the inevitable end, to darkness, still, is it not best to go home to God after our travels, full of sweetness? Yes, even though we should go home deluded, it shall not be said that we did not do our best. And do not old graves look the sweeter for the bright flowers upon them, instead of rank, evil-smelling weeds?”
“Father, why does God have so many paths and creeds that are evil or good?” said Waylao.
At hearing her say this, I looked at her. Her face was very serious. It seemed like some dream to me as the seas wailed up the shore and the face of the girl turned with so serious a glance up at the priest. Then the Father continued:
“My child, but a little while ago you played in your father’s house with your many dolls: some had black faces with dark eyes, and some pale faces, yet did you not love them all, even the ugliest, and love one more than all the rest? Did you question or wonder why there was a difference in them, or did those old dolls question you?”
“Not that I remember, Father,” said the girl absently.
“Just so, then, as we are the children of God, shall we question the mysteriousness of His ways? Oh, my child, listen to me. We are the sad poems that the Great Master writes on the scroll of Time. We are written for some purpose that we know not of. And shall the poems in the great Poet’s book of Life arise from their pages, inquire and demand from whence came their thoughts—or criticise the Great Author and His works?”
The foregoing is the gist of all that I remember of old Father O’Leary’s replies to Waylao’s strange questions. I saw the girl home that night.