"Peace be to this house!" said the man gently, as he stepped forward from the door.
The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as though he had seen a spirit.
"M'sieu' le curé!" he said in French, with an accent much poorer than that of the priest, or even of his own son. He had learned French from his wife; he himself was English.
The priest's quick eye had taken in the lighted candles at the little shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed aspect of the man.
"The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked, looking round. "Ah, the boy!" he added, and going toward the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice: "Dominique is ill?"
Bagot nodded, and then answered: "A wildcat and then fever, Father Corraine."
The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then with a close personal look he spoke hardly above his breath, yet distinctly, too:
"Your wife, Bagot?"
"She is not here, m'sieu'." The voice was low and gloomy.
"Where is she, Bagot?"