“Would you be displeased if I should be one in earnest?” she asked.
“I should be glad!” her father replied, and rose abruptly to meet Melicent, who was going home.
The others withdrew, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Yorke with Edith and Carl. They gathered closely together before the fire, the parents sitting between their children, and, with hand clasped in hand, talked lovingly and seriously far into the night.
When they parted, all had shed tears, but they were not tears of sorrow.
“Good-night, my dear parents,” Edith said, embracing them. “You have made me happy for all my life, and yourselves happy for all eternity. I do not wonder that you find it hard to take such a step, and renounce before the world the religion which you have professed all your lives. You are not cowards; you have been willing to suffer that Catholics might have their rights; but, you know, ‘obedience is better than sacrifice.’”
“Perhaps it is a whim,” Mrs. Yorke said; “but I would like to be baptized by that dear young man I used to love so, Mr. Rowan.”
“Young man!” Carl said, smiling. “He and I are about the same age, and I am forty-three.”
“Forty-three!” echoed his mother in surprise. “And I am over sixty! Charles, we are entering on our service at the eleventh hour. We will not wait for Mr. Rowan. Let us not delay beyond to-morrow.”
“Good-night, children!” said Mr. Yorke. “Yes, Amy.”
The next day was Sunday, and Carl and Edith went to High Mass. Captain Cary’s “flurry” had passed with the night, and not a cloud was to be seen. Little heaps and drifts of snow hid under fences and trees, but the pavement was wind-swept. The sun shone joyously, and, not far from it, a waning moon dissolved in its light.