"
"You mean--"
"That there is no hope--absolutely none. He will die within two days."
As he spoke, the little priest straightened himself and lifted his hands
as if about to pronounce a benediction.
"Thank God!" he breathed. Then, as quickly, he caught himself. "No, I
don't mean that. God forgive me! But--it is best." Weyman stared
incredulously into his face.
"It is best," repeated the other, as gently as if speaking a prayer. "How
strangely the Creator sometimes works out His ends! I came straight here
from Split Lake. Marie La Corne died two weeks ago. It was I who said the
last prayer over her dead body!"
HIS FIRST PENITENT
In a white wilderness of moaning storm, in a wilderness of miles and
miles of black pine-trees, the Transcontinental Flier lay buried in the
snow. In the first darkness of the wild December night, engine and tender
had rushed on ahead to division headquarters, to let the line know that
the flier had given up the fight, and needed assistance. They had been
gone two hours, and whiter and whiter grew the brilliantly lighted
coaches in the drifts and winnows of the whistling storm. From the black
edges of the forest, prowling eyes might have looked upon scores of human
faces staring anxiously out into the blackness from the windows of the
coaches.
In those coaches it was growing steadily colder. Men were putting on
their overcoats, and women snuggled deeper in their furs.
Pages:
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214