"In that case," replied the Father, "it's a good thing, I'm thinkin', that I brought along a photograph!"
There it was in his hand. He held it (small and round, it was) cupped by a big palm; and Johnnie, leaning forward, studied the pictured countenance carefully. "That's right," went on the priest; "look at it close—close!"
"I—I like him," Johnnie said, after a little. "And I'm awful sorry he's dead.—But please go on, Father Pat. I want t' hear 'bout him. Though if the story's very sad, why, I'm 'fraid that Cis'll cry."
"I won't," promised Cis. "But—but if the story tells how he died, I don't think I'll look at the picture—not just yet, anyhow."
The priest laid the photograph, face down, upon the table. "It isn't that Miss Narcissa'll cry," he argued; "but, oh, what'll we say t' this young lady when she sees us weep?—for, little lad dear, this is a tale—" He broke off, then and there, as if about to break down on the spot. But coughed, and changed feet, thus getting control of himself once more, so that he was able to go on.
"This young man I'm tellin' about lived in Buffalo," continued the Father. "Now that city is close t' the noble Falls that ye're so fond o' visitin' with Grandpa. Well, one day in the Spring——"
"Scuse me! Last spring?" Johnnie interrupted.
"Eight long springs ago," answered the Father. "Which would make ye about two years o' age at the time, if me arithmetic is workin' fairly well t'day."
"Two is right," declared Johnnie, with the certainty of one who has committed to memory, page by page, the whole of a book on numbers.
"But as ye were all o' four years old at the time," corrected the priest, "eight springs ago would make ye twelve years old at this date——"