“Yes, perhaps so. But there, there, why should we discourse about such matters?”
“True, brother, when we are both hopeful that, in spite of contending dogma, we may reach the heavenly gate in company; and it strikes me,” he added with a smile, “that if we do the good saint may give us both a welcoming smile.”
“Brother,” said Master Peasegood, leaning across the table, “if he had not one for you, I’d, I’d—bless me that I would—I’d take him to task about the fact.”
“Take him to task!”
“Ay! Remind him of a bit of weakness of his when a certain cock did crow.”
Father Brisdone looked up with a half-amused, half-sorrowful expression. Then, with a sigh:
“If the good saint had no welcome for my companion, and held the door open for me alone, I should feel that I had been mistaken all my life, join hands with my friend, and accompany him back.”
There was another hearty shake of the hand at this, and then the two friends sat and smoked in silence for a time.
“Look here, brother,” said Master Peasegood, suddenly; “we both love and like to direct sweet Mace, and leave another roaming about like a poor lost lamb. Now, why don’t you take up Mistress Anne Beckley? She is young, and easily moulded.”
“Nay,” was the reply; “I’d rather you tried your hand. I shall not seek to make her a proselyte to our cause.”