“Oh, Father Rector, won’t you please come in? Say, Pa, this is the priest who fed me when I was hungry, clothed me when I was naked, took me in when I was abandoned, and treated me as if I was a prince in disguise. Say, Ma, look at him and thank him, if you can. I can’t.” And Clarence blubbered.
“Father Keenan,” said Mr. Esmond with quivering lips, “if I should think of trying to thank you, I should become absolutely dumb. I am helpless; and to think that you should be the member of an Order I’ve been abusing all my life.”
Mrs. Esmond, in turn, took the dismayed Father’s hand, and tried to speak. She failed; but her eyes spoke the gratitude her tongue could not utter.
“Don’t—don’t mention it,” said Father Keenan lamely and with a vivid blush. “I’m happier than I can say to have done anything for as fine and as gifted a boy as I have ever met.”
There came an awkward silence. The Rector was confused beyond measure; Mrs. Esmond had gathered her boy to her arms, and was fondling him as she had done when he was a little child. Mr. Esmond was endeavoring with but ill success to master his burst of emotion.
“Say, Pa,” cried Clarence, breaking away in excitement. “There’s one thing I want to say right off. You said I might choose my religion when I was fourteen. Well, I’ve chosen. I want to be a Catholic.”
“Certainly, my boy, certainly. I never thought of your joining that Faith; but you’ll be in good company.”
“And, Father Rector, may I be baptized?”
“Of course, Clarence, since your father so kindly consents.”
“And, Father, will you do it?”