“Thou believes that, does thou?”
“I do.”
“So will I—when I see’t. I reckon I’ll have a rare capful o’ larks by th’ sky falling, first.”
“The sky will fall some day, my son,” said the voice of Father Thomas, behind Dan. His soft rap had been unheard through Dan’s bass voice, and he had entered unperceived.
“Well, Father, you should know the rights on’t,” was Dan’s answer, with a pull at his hair. “Being a priest, I reckon you’re good friends wi’ th’ angels and th’ sky and all that sort of thing; but—I ask your pardon, Father, but She belongs to t’other lot, and you don’t know her. Eh, you don’t, so!”
And with an ominous shake of his head, and a good-night to Avice and Bertha, Dan passed out.
“Our Lord could do that, Father?” said Avice softly.
“Certainly, my daughter. ‘Whatsoever the Lord pleased, that did He—in the heavens, and in the earth, and in the sea, and in all depths.’”
Father Thomas had not much of the Bible—only one Gospel and a Book of Psalms—but what he had he studied well. And one page of the Word of God will do a great deal for a man, with the Spirit of God to bring it home to a willing ear and a loving heart.
“May I pray for Aunt Filomena? I am so sorry for Uncle Dan. He is not a bad man, and she makes his home unbearable.”