"What is it, Parpon ?" he asked gravely.
"It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed.
"He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good priest.
"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure--and I've carried him." "Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc Pomfrette ?" asked the Cure.
"I did not know I was coming--no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the priest's unflinchingly.
"You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life." "I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply.
"Died, and been cast to perdition!" "I'm used to that; I've had a bad time here in Pontiac." His thin hands moved restlessly.

His leg moved, and the little bell tinkled--the bell that had been like the bell of a leper these years past.
"But you live, and you have years yet before you, in the providence of God.

Luc Pomfrette, you blasphemed against your baptism, and horribly against God himself.

Luc"-- his voice got softer--"I knew your mother, and she was almost too weak to hold you when you were baptised, for you made a great to-do about coming into the world.

She had a face like a saint--so sweet, so patient.