The hotel man was conducted by the Rector into the infirmary and brought to the side of the sleeping boy. He was breathing softly, the roses had returned to his cheeks and his head was pillowed in his right hand.
“That’s him, all right,” said the hotel keeper after a brief survey. “I’d know him anywheres. There ain’t many boys around here got such rosy cheeks and such fair complexions. There ain’t many boys who’ve got such bright, fluffy hair, and I don’t know a single one who’s got his hair bobbed the way he has.”
On returning to his room, Father Keenan opened a special drawer in his desk and sorted out from a bundle of papers an envelope with a post-mark indicating that it had reached him several days before. He took out the letter and read it again.
“Dear Father Keenan: Probably you don’t remember me. I was a boy with you at St. Maure’s College—and a very poor boy at that. Other fellows had pocket money; I had none—most of the time. I hadn’t been there long when you ‘caught on,’ as we used to say. During the five months we were together you seemed to know when I needed a nickel or a dime, and, in a way that was yours, you managed to keep me supplied. I say it was your way, for you got me to take the money as though I were doing you a favor. The amount you gave me must have been six or seven dollars, all told; and I really don’t think I had sense enough at the time to understand how really kind you were. Many years have passed, and the older I get, the more grateful I feel. Up to a few years ago, I had lost track of you completely. I didn’t know even that you had become a Jesuit. Well, Father George, I happened to see in our Catholic paper last week that you were Rector of Campion College, a boarding school. If you are one-tenth as kind to the boys under your care as you were to me, you’ll be just the sort of President needed in such a place. The memory of our days in St. Maure’s has helped me to live a good life and to practice my faith, surrounded though I be with enemies of the Church. There are three Catholic families here in a population of three thousand. God has blessed me in my business. I have my own home, a loving wife and five of the nicest children in the State of Missouri. Also, to speak of things more material, a grain store and a comfortable bank account.
“I am sending you with this a check for one hundred dollars, payment on your loans of pocket money with compound interest, and then some. Of course, you may do with the money as you please. But if I may make a suggestion—don’t think me sentimental—it would please me if you were to put aside forty or fifty dollars of it to help out some poor boy in the way of clothes, books, and pocket money.
“In sending you this I do not wish you to consider our account closed. So long as God continues to bless and prosper me, I intend sending you from time to time—every quarter, I trust—a like donation. May the money I send do as much good as you did me.
“I still remember the old boys of our day affectionately. Nearly all of them were kind to me. One in particular, a black-haired, dark-complexioned, mischievous little fellow, who was full of heart, I can never forget. I never met him but he sent me off supplied with candy. His name was Tom Playfair. What’s become of him?
“Pray for me, dear Father George, and especially for my wife, who is an angel, and our children, who promise to be worthy of their mother. My love and my gratitude go with this letter.
“Sincerely and gratefully,
“John S. Wilcox.”