There were but two figures on the platform—Labbée, who held a satchel in his hand; and a tall, slight form in clerical attire.
“Ah, Father Aubert—salut!” Labbée called out. “You are late; but we saw your light coming just as the train pulled out, and so——”
“Well, well, François, my son!”—it was a rich, mellow voice that broke in on the station agent.
Raymond stood up and lifted his hat—lifted it so that it but shaded his face the more.
“Monsignor!” he said, in a low voice. “This is a great honour.”
“Honour!” the Bishop responded heartily. “Why should I not come, I—but do I sit on this side?”—he had stepped down into the buckboard, as he grasped Raymond's hand.
“Yes, Monsignor”—Raymond's wide-brimmed clerical hat was far over his eyes. The lantern on the front of the dash-board left them in shadow; Labbée's lantern for the moment was behind them, as the station agent stowed the Bishop's valise under the seat. He took up the reins, and with an almost abrupt “goodnight” to the station agent, started the horse forward along the road.
“Good-night!” Labbée shouted after them. “Goodnight, Monsignor!”
“Good-night!” the Bishop called back—and turned to Raymond. “Yes, as I was saying,” he resumed, “why should I not come? I was passing through St. Marleau in any case. I have heard splendid things of my young friend, the curé, here. I wanted to see for myself, and to tell him how pleased and gratified I was.”
“You are very good, Monsignor,” Raymond answered, his voice still low and hurried.