So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of benediction, passed to the
door, and, after tapping very softly, opened it, entered, and closed it
behind him--not so quickly, however, but that the woman caught a glimpse
of the father and the boy. In her eyes there was the divine look of
motherhood.

"Peace be to this house!" said the man gently, as he stepped forward
from the door.

The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as though he had seen a
spirit.

"_M'sieu' le curé!_" he said in French, with an accent much poorer than
that of the priest, or even of his own son. He had learned French from
his wife; he himself was English.

The priest's quick eye had taken in the lighted candles at the little
shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed aspect of the man.

"The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked, looking round. "Ah, the boy!" he
added, and going toward the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice:
"Dominique is ill?"

Bagot nodded, and then answered: "A wildcat and then fever, Father
Corraine."

The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then with a close personal look
he spoke hardly above his breath, yet distinctly, too: