"And your mother and father," I asked, as we started back together, "fled from France rather than give up their faith?"
"Yes," he answered, and smiled down into my eyes, raised anxiously to his.
"And were persecuted just as the early martyrs were?"
"Yes, very much the same. All of their goods were taken from them, and they were long in prison."
"But they were never sorry?"
"No, they were never sorry. No one is ever sorry for doing a thing like that."
I trotted on in silence for a moment, holding tight to his kindly hand, and revolving this new idea in my mind. At last I looked up at him, big with purpose.
"I am going to do something like that some day," I said.
He gazed down at me, his eyes shining queerly.
"God grant that you may have the strength, my boy," he said. He bent and kissed me, and we returned to the house together without saying another word.