am trying to tell you is this. . . because of mon Cure
I have not missed him.5
Thank you, my son, for those words/ said* the
Cure.
They talked for a little while of the church, and
of how the Cure would make restorations some day
when the workmen returned from the war and the
congregation could better spend money. Saint Loup's
altar was letting the rain in, he told them/ the last
storm had wetted the saint quite badly. And the
Cure now ventured a very small joke: 'It is possible
even that he may catch cold, for he cannot well
put up an umbrella!5
Presently Jan glanced at his wrist-watch: 'We
must leave you, mon pere,5 So the Cure rose, while
they knelt to receive his benediction.
Then the Cure opened a drawer in his desk, and
he took from its case the old silver rood blessed for a
holy death by some saint — a saint whose name he
could not remember: 'This rood belonged to my
mother,9 he said gravely; 'Long ago it was blessed
for Bona Mors. See, it has a very strong chain and
can therefore be safely worn round the neck. I my-
self have had it a great many years, and now I am
going to give it . . .' His voice faltered, 'to give it
to . . .* He had stretched out his hand and had given
the old silver rood to Christophe. He thought that he
cried out: 'No, no, it is Jan's!' Yet he knew the next
moment that he could not have spoken, for Christophe
had slipped the chain over his head and was thrusting
the crucifix into his tunic.
'How can I thank you for this, mon p£re—how
can I thank you?' Christophe was saying; and Jan's
eyes were brimming with gratitude because the gift
had been offered to Christophe.
The Cure stared at them; then he found his com-
posure and spoke calmly as befitted his office: 'I shall
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