"He was thinkin' o' the baby he was leavin' behind," went on the priest, "in that last moment o' his life. And if she was, too, then it's no wonder the gentle thing couldn't lift her head."
"Oh! Oh, Father Pat!"—while One-Eye stroked the yellow hair he had ruffled, and whispered fondly under that dun mustache.
"The ice was near the rapids now, so there isn't a great deal more t' tell," continued the Father. "He put up one hand, did yer father, wavin' it in a last salute—thankin', maybe, the men who had worked so hard with the ropes.—O God o' Mercy, wast Thou not lookin' down upon Thy servant as he gave his life cheerfully just t' comfort hers one minute longer?
"The agony was short. The rapids caught the cake, which whirled like a wheel—once. Then it tipped, breakin' again, crumblin' t' bits under them, and they sank. There was just a glimpse, a second's, o' his head, shinin' in the sun. Then they were gone—gone. God rest his soul—his brave, brave soul! And God rest her soul, too!" The Father crossed himself.
After awhile, having wiped his own eyes, he went on once more: "Behind them swayed the rope as the men on the bridge slowly dragged it up and up. And the people everywhere turned away, and started slowly home. Not alt'gether sadly, though. For they'd seen a beautiful thing done, one which was truly sublime. And later in yer life, lad dear, when ye hear tell, manny a time, how this boy or that has had somethin' left t' him by his father—land, maybe, or a great house, or money—then don't ye fail t' remember what was left t' yerself! For yer father left ye more than riches. He left ye the right t' be proud o' him, and t' respect and honor him, and there's no grander inheritance than that! And the sweetness which was yer mother's, along with the bravery o' yer father, all are yer own, comin' t' ye in their blood which courses through yer own veins. Inheritance! What a lot is in the word! Manny's the time I've wondered about ye—how ye love what's decent and good—good books, and right conduct, and t' be clean, and all the rest o' it. But now I understand why. Come t' me, little son o' a good mother! Little son o' a brave father!" The priest held out his hand.
As Johnnie came, Father Pat took from a pocket a leather case which, when opened, disclosed—was it a piece of money? or an ornament? Johnnie could not decide. But it was round, and beautiful, and of gold. Taken from its case, it was heavy. On the obverse side it bore the likeness of a man as old, nearly, as Grandpa; on the reverse, cut in a splendid circle, were the words, Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. In the center, in lasting letters of metal, were other words: Awarded to William Blake.
"'Tis a medal," explained the Father, "and 'twas awarded to that husband who would not save himself if he could not save his wife."
"Is—is that my father's picture?" Johnnie asked, under his breath.
"No, lad dear. 'Tis Andrew Carnegie, that—the founder of the Carnegie Hero Fund. He was a poor boy when he came to America from Scotland. And, Johnnie, dear, books was what he loved, and when he was a little telegraph messenger, he'd read when he could, in betwixt scamperin' here and there with messages. He lived to make a fortune, and much of that fortune he spent in buildin' libraries for those who can't afford to buy their own books. And he did manny other things, and one o' 'em was—t' leave an educational award t' the wee son o' a certain hero I could name, so that the lad, as soon as he was big enough, could go t' school and college. Now, who d' ye think I mean?"
Johnnie knew; yet it was all so sudden that he could not wholly realize it. "Money for school, lad dear," repeated the priest. "It's been waitin' for ye this long time. But Mr. Tom Barber didn't happen t' know about it, and we'll not be sayin' a word t' him just yet. No; I'm thinkin' the news would be the end o' the dear man—so much money in the family, and him not able t' put his hands on a cent!"
