Hath sent us his faire Childe Son.”
The door opened slowly and a voice which all ears could hear said reverently, “Pax vobiscum.” The good days were begun.
Strange how calmly they all received
him! Reuben never asked him how he came there; he had looked for him and prayed for him a long while, and he was there at last. God, of course, had sent him. One by one he brought the children to speak with him, and to have him pronounce on their fitness to be made God’s children; and the tears stood in the priest’s eyes as he listened to their simple, fearless answers, that witnessed to what Reuben’s work of faith had been. When they were gone away to their homes, which were far less homes to them than Reuben’s cabin was, Reuben came to the priest as simply as any one of them had come, and asked to be allowed to make confession.
“You’ll stay here and be good, Doctor,” he said soothingly. “I shall only be in the other room, and I’ve locked the door hard.”
The Doctor made a sort of moaning assent.
“He’s just had a very sad time,” explained Reuben, “and he needs you very much, father. By and by please let him speak to you.”
How wonderful to listen, in that place of revenge and murder, to Reuben’s quiet, brief confession—no complaints, no bitterness, no anger, except that for one day he had felt hatred toward some one, against whom, however, he brought no accusation, and for this sin he felt especial contrition.
“I met lately,” the priest said slowly, when the confession was finished, and marking with care the effect his words would have, “a man known sometimes as Lazell.”
Reuben gave a start as of joyful surprise, and would have spoken, but the priest continued: