As Laurie stood up again, his friend leaned over the balcony and looked down on the young, lifted brow. For one instant their eyes met; then Verheyden started up and fled out into the night.
Father Vinton sat alone in his room meditating on a text which was gradually expanding, budding, and blossoming into a sermon. He tried not to be vexed when some one knocked at his door at that late hour, and was just controlling his voice to give a charitable summons when the door opened, and Verheyden, or his ghost, came in, and, without a word of greeting, fell on his knees beside the priest, dropping his face to the arm of the chair.
"My poor friend," said the father, "have you not yet forgiven God for loving you better than you can understand?"
Verheyden shivered, but said nothing.
"Remember whose hands were pierced, not one, but both, and his feet, and his side. He never shrank."
Verheyden's shaking hand held out a little vial "I shall take this unless you prevent me," he said. "Help me if there is any help. I dare not be alone."
Father Vinton unstopped the vial, and, taking deliberate aim, flung it through the open window into the street. Then he laid his hand tenderly upon the bowed head. "You shall not be alone," he said. "Stay here to-night."
Blessed are all peace-makers; but thrice blessed are those who make peace between the soul and God. Blessed are they in whose care we breathe the tales else unspoken, whose hands lead us back from the brink of many a precipice where no one dreamed we stood, whose voices soothe the pains hidden to all besides, and inspire with hope hearts that were filled with despair. May such peace-makers be for ever blessed!
Verheyden's religion had been a recollection rather than a remembrance. He had made a point of going to confession and communion once a year; and had one looked into his mind while he was preparing for these sacraments, something like the following might have been seen: "Well, what have I been doing this year? I haven't committed any sins. I've done nothing but play tunes. To be sure, I broke Smith's fiddle over his head for playing false and spoiling a chorus. Don't suppose that was just right; though I must say I think the chorus of more consequence than Smith's head. But I must have done something. I'm not a saint yet. Guess I'll say a prayer.