"Pretty boy," crooned the priest in low, coaxing tones, gently tightening his hold.
"Is it white?" I whispered.
"I can't see."
"Good little man," he went on, slowly folding his hands about it. Drawing quickly back, he lifted the child completely into his arms.
"Is boy sleepy?" he asked.
"Call him 'Eric,'" I urged.
"Is Eric sleepy?"
The child's head fell wearily against the priest's shoulder. Snuggling closer, he lisped back in perfect English, "Eric's tired."
At once Father Holland's free hand caught my arm as if he feared I might rush out. For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then he said, "Give me your coat."