My soul prayed his great white God, in that moment, that
He would let me have only this. It was twilight when we re-entered
the mission gate. We were both excited, feverish. Father Paul was
reading evening prayers in the large room beyond the hallway; his
soft, saint-like voice stole beyond the doors, like a benediction
upon us. I went noiselessly upstairs to my own room and sat there
undisturbed for hours.
The clock downstairs struck one, startling me from my dreams of
happiness, and at the same moment a flash of light attracted me. My
room was in an angle of the building, and my window looked almost
directly down into those of Father Paul's study, into which at that
instant he was entering, carrying a lamp. "Why, Laurence," I heard
him exclaim, "what are you doing here? I thought, my boy, you were
in bed hours ago."
"No, uncle, not in bed, but in dreamland," replied Laurence, arising
from the window, where evidently he, too, had spent the night hours
as I had done.
Father Paul fumbled about a moment, found his large black book,
which for once he seemed to have got separated from, and was turning
to leave, when the curious circumstance of Laurence being there at
so unusual an hour seemed to strike him anew.
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