“Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear sister here departed. . . .”
Presently a prayer that Bobbie knew. He muttered it by rote and without the least desire to consider the meaning of the words. “Our Fa’r, chart in ’Eaven, ’allowed be—” The curate closed the book and controlled his white surplice from the vagaries of the gusty irreverent wind.
“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with us all evermore. Amen.”
“This the poor creature’s son?” asked the young curate briskly and cheerfully.
“Her only boy, sir.”
“And you are his aunt, eh?”
“No, sir! Only a well-meanin’ neighbour; he ain’t got any rel’tives, worse luck.”
“So you’re all alone in the world, my boy? (Bother the wind!) Now you must make up your mind to be a good lad, because there are plenty of people ready to help good lads, and very few who will waste their time over bad ones.”
“That’s what I tell him, sir,” remarked Mrs. Rastin ingratiatingly.
“And don’t forget—” The curate stopped and sneezed. “Enough to give anybody a cold,” said he. “Good-bye, my lad.”