"Paula doesn't need to learn how to pray, Monsieur Breton," said Celestina, "she's known how to pray for years, not only for herself, but also for others."
"For years, you say! And who then taught her to pray?" said the Breton surprised.
"It was my father," said Paula quietly.
"Your father! Well, he wasn't much like me, then; was he!"
"No, he wasn't," and Paula without a sign of either fear or abhorrence looked compassionately at the brutalized face that confronted her.
"And you don't live with him any more?"
"No," said Paula; "father is in heaven."
"And whatever would you do if you had a father like me?" and the poor
Breton looked at her keenly.
Paula sat a moment with closed eyes. She recalled the strong noble face and figure of her dear father and asked God to give her a reply to the poor drunkard's question.
"I think," she said at last, "I would ask God Himself to make him a man of
God like my father."