"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. You were her only child, and your baptism
was more to her than her marriage even, or any other thing in this world.
The day after your baptism she died. What do you think were her last
words?"

There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette's face, and his eyes were intense
and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Cure.

"I can't think any more," answered Pomfrette slowly. "I've no head."

"What she said is for your heart, not for your head, Luc," rejoined the
Cure gently. "She wandered in her mind, and at the last she raised
herself up in her bed, and lifting her finger like this"--he made the
gesture of benediction--" she said, 'Luc Michele, I baptise you in the
name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.' Then
she whispered softly: 'God bless my dear Luc Michee! Holy Mother pray
for him!' These were her last words, and I took you from her arms. What
have you to say, Luc Michee?"