now."

There was a knock at the door; then it opened and showed a modest
novice in a simple gown of black serge girt at the waist with the flat
encircling band. His head was downward; it was not till the blue eyes
flashed inquisitively up that Father Anthony recognized Pierre.

The hard voice of Jean Paul Victor pronounced: "This is that Father
Anthony of whom I have spoken."

The novice slipped to his knees and folded his hands, while the plump
fingers of Father Anthony poised over that dark red hair, pressed
smooth on top where the skullcap rested. The blessing which he spoke
was Latin, and Father Victor looked somewhat anxiously toward his
protege till the latter answered in a diction so pure that Cicero
himself would have smiled to hear it.

"Stand up!" cried Father Anthony. "By heavens, Jean Paul, it is the
purest Latin I have heard this twelvemonth."

And the lad answered: "It must be pure Latin; Father Victor has taught
me."

Gabrielle Anthony stared, and to save him from too obvious confusion
the other priest interrupted: "I have a letter for you, my son."

And he passed the envelope to Pierre. The latter examined it with
interest. "This comes from the south. It is marked from the
United States."