"With your permission, sir," says the Colonel in his most magnificent manner, "we will accompany you, or follow if you are in haste."
"With all my heart. Come," said the priest, "if you will wait and breakfast with us after Mass."
It was agreed, and the immediate order was countermanded. The sound of a bell came, muffled, through the storm.
With thoughts turning reluctantly from breakfast, "What's that?" asked the Boy.
"That is our church bell." The Father had helped the Colonel to find his parki.
"Oh—a—of course—"
"A fine tone, don't you think? But you can't tell so well in this storm. We are fond of our bell. It is the first that ever rang out in the Yukon valley. Listen!"
They stood still a moment before opening the front door. The Boy, seeing the very look of a certain high-shouldered gray stone "St. Andrew's" far away, and himself trotting along beside that figure, inseparable from first memories, was dimly aware again, as he stood at the Jesuit's door, in these different days, of the old Sunday feeling invading, permeating his consciousness, half reluctant, half amused.
The Colonel sat in a rural church and looked at the averted face of a woman.
Only to the priest was the sound all music.