“Unscathed, my son,” the Cure said.
Was this tailor-man not his son? Had he not thirsted for his soul as a hart for the water-brooks?
“I am very sorry for you, Monsieur,” said Charley.
“It is God’s will,” was the reply, in a choking voice. “It will be years before we have another church—many, many years.”
The roof gave way with a crash, and the spire shot down into the flaming debris.
The people groaned.
“It will cost sixty thousand dollars to build it up again,” said Filion Lacasse.
“We have three thousand dollars from the Passion Play,” said the Notary. “That could go towards it.”
“We have another two thousand in the bank,” said Maximilian Cour.
“But it will take years,” said the saddler disconsolately.