Merry, foolish talk, but innocent and restful.
“And, by the way,” resumed the priest, “that same F. White has gone away, and I must go and attend a sick call for him. I got the telegram as I came along.”
“Not to-night!” the mother exclaimed.
“Yes, to-night. I sent word that I would come. The man is in danger. Besides, I could not spare time to-morrow forenoon. I can drive the five miles before ten o’clock, stay the rest of the night there, and come home in the morning in time to say Mass at six o’clock. That is the best plan. I don’t care to be out very late.”
“It is the better way,” she said, but looked disappointed. “I don’t like to have you out late at night, it gives you such headaches.”
“Headache is easier to bear than heart-ache, mother,” said the priest brightly, and went to the window to give Andrew his order for the carriage. “Have it ready in front of the church at a quarter before nine o’clock,” he said. “And, Andrew, light the gas in the sacristy.”
Mother Chevreuse anxiously served her son, urged him to take a muffler, lest the night air should prove chilly, poured a second cup of tea for him, and, when he was ready to start, stood looking earnestly at him, half in pride of his stalwart manliness, half in tender, motherly anxiety lest some accident should befall him on the long, lonely drive.
“Hadn’t you better take Andrew with you?” she suggested.
“And why should I take Andrew with me?” the priest asked, putting a stole in his pocket.