At that she kissed me. Not a whimper, although I am an only son and
the name dies with me, the old name of which she was so beautifully
proud! She had hoped to see my son wear my father's name and face and
thus bring back the lost husband she had so greatly loved; she had
prayed to see my children about her knees, and it must have cost her a
frightful anguish to renounce these sweet and consoling dreams, these
tender and human ambitions. Yet she did so, smiling, and kissed me on
the brow.

Three months later I entered the Church; and because I was the last
De Rancé, and twenty four, and the day was to have been my
wedding-day, there fell upon me, sorely against my will, the halo of
sad romance.

Endeared thus to the young, I suppose I grew into what I might call a
very popular preacher. Though I myself cannot see that I ever did much
actual good, since my friends praised my sermons for their "fine
Gallic flavor," and I made no enemies.

But there was no rest for my spirit, until the Call came again, the
Call that may not be slighted, and bade me leave my sheltered place,
my pleasant lines, and go among the poor, to save my own soul alive.

That is why and how the Bishop, my old and dear friend, after long
argument and many protests, at length yielded and had me transferred
from fashionable St. Jean Baptiste's to the poverty-stricken
missionary parish of sodden laboring folk in a South Carolina
coast-town: he meant to cure me, the good man! I should have the worst
at the outset.