‘An’ will he make the good sign?’ asked the mother timidly.
And so the child was baptized by the Presbyterian minister with holy water and with the sign of the cross. I don’t suppose it was orthodox, and it rendered chaotic some of my religious notions, but I thought more of Craig that moment than ever before. He was more man than minister, or perhaps he was so good a minister that day because so much a man. As he read about the Saviour and the children and the disciples who tried to get in between them, and as he told us the story in his own simple and beautiful way, and then went on to picture the home of the little children, and the same Saviour in the midst of them, I felt my heart grow warm, and I could easily understand the cry of the mother—
‘Oh, mon Jesu, prenez moi aussi, take me wiz mon mignon.’
The cry wakened Slavin’s heart, and he said huskily—
‘Oh! Annette! Annette!’
‘Ah, oui! an’ Michael too!’ Then to Mr. Craig—
‘You tink He’s tak me some day? Eh?’
‘All who love Him,’ he replied.
‘An’ Michael too?’ she asked, her eyes searching his face, ‘An’ Michael too?’
But Craig only replied: ‘All who love Him.’