“Yes, Dora.”
“You must know, Ben, that when no priest can be had, anyone may, in case of necessity, baptize. Now, I am going to the river for water; and while I’m gone tell God that you are sorry for your sins.”
Suddenly, the flap of the tent was thrown back, and Dora, like some heavenly apparition, stood revealed. Her face was stained with tears. For the rest, she was in modesty, in expression in dress—blue and white—a Child of Mary.
“Dora,” cried Clarence, no longer able to contain himself. “O, Clarence,” cried the child throwing herself into his arms. “Pete has killed Ben. He stabbed him an hour ago, because Ben defended the statue of our Blessed Mother from Pete and his wife. They were going to burn it.”
“Dora,” said Clarence, “there’s a priest here.” And he pointed to Father Keenan.
“O, thank God! thank God! He has sent you to prepare Ben,” and the child threw herself at Father Keenan’s feet, and in all reverence, kissed his hand.
The practical Father Keenan, as she did so, took the glass from her fingers, and handed it to Rieler.
“Run to the river, John, and get some water.” Then raising Dora kindly, and throwing his hands above his head, the preconcerted signal, the Rector hastened into the tent.
“Dora! Dora!” came a deep voice as the girl was about to follow the priest.
Clarence turned. Will Benton, pale as a sheet, his eyes starting from their sockets, was hastening toward them. He was holding out his arms toward the girl, amazement and incredulity upon his face.