The priest crossed the room, and came back from a little search on the table with a paper in his hand. All the merriment had died out of his face; it looked years older, wan. "I w-want you to p-promise me something," he said, stammering much again in his emotion.
Paul leant back against the mantelpiece, wearily. "What, Father?" he asked; "I'll do anything I can."
"You c-c-can do this, ea-easily. Don't let's argue any more all the time you're here. Don't read books, except the N-N-New T-T-Testament. And promise me to pray this every day in the chapel before the S-Sacrament with all your heart."
He held out a paper. "I've w-w-written it out for you," he said.
Paul took the half-sheet of notepaper, written in the clear print of the priest's hand. He read it through once, and then he read it through again, only, this time, the letters were a little blurred. Then he looked up at his friend.
"Father," he said, "I can't help it. I know this, whatever anyone says. You bring our Lord to me as no one and nothing else has ever done."
"Ah, then," cried the priest, "if you turn back now!"
Bridget put her head in. "Supper's ready, your reverence," she said.
Father Vassall nodded swiftly at her. "You promise?" he said, turning to Paul.
"Oh, yes. And you'll pray for me?"