“Excellent,” said the Rector.
“And did you hear about Pete?” asked Clarence.
“No; how is he?”
“Pa just got word. It took him thirty-six hours to recover from the blow that Will Benton gave him. He was unconscious all that time.”
“Let us hope and pray that God may bring him to repentance,” said the Rector.
“The jail doctor says he’ll never do harm again. And, Father, tomorrow Dorcas goes to Communion; then she’s coming up to bid you good-bye, and then off she starts to her new work.”
“Thank God,” said Father Keenan. “And now, Clarence, sit down while I read your father’s letter.”
And this is what Father Keenan read:
“My dear Father Keenan: I am trying to write what I have found it impossible to say. To borrow the language of my little boy—who, I believe, borrowed from the words of Christ in the New Testament—Clarence was hungry and you fed him, naked and you clothed him, and outcast and you took him in. He was sorrowful and you consoled him; orphaned, and, at the sacrifice of your precious time, you took the place of father and mother. He needed, too, someone to take hold of his complicated situation and you by telegram, telephone, letter and in every conceivable way unravelled the tangle within a few hours; and in doing so brought gladness to sad and suffering hearts; in a few hours, you effected the rescue of his dear little girl friend; and, when we arrived, had everything in the finest condition imaginable and everybody happy. In all this you were aided and abetted by that little saint, Dora—the most wonderful girl I have ever met—by John Rieler, that paragon of good-nature who saved my boy’s life; and by that prince of young men, Strong-Arm Benton, which quick performance at the gypsy camp will never be forgotten by those who hear it told.
“To have my boy the intimate of Will, Dora and Rieler—the most wonderful trio one could bring together—I esteem a rare privilege and an honor. Their friendship is touched with youth, and purity and faith.