"You will come to the cathedral as of old?" Though voiced as a request, the words were a command.

"Let me stay here, I beg of you," pleaded the priest. "I am no longer young--"

"Age is not counted by years."

"I love it here and--"

But the Bishop raised his hand, and the priest was silent.

"You may stay for the present. That much I grant you."

But Monsignore's heart was too full for long silence, his fears too great. He spoke hurriedly, pleadingly.

"Will you not protect me?"

"I may not be able to protect you."

"I am tired, my dear Bishop--tired, but contented. Here is rest, and peace. And when _they_ come back, you know I want to be near them.

Let me stay."

"Yes, I know," said the Bishop, and his voice forbade further plea.

"You may stay--for the present."

Then the Bishop, too, had left; and now Monsignore was alone. He sat in his great armchair and watched the flames of the fire dancing and playing before him. He marveled at his pleasure in them, as he marveled at his pleasure now in the little things that were for the future to be the great things for him. Before his vision rose the cathedral he had builded, with its twin towers piercing the sky; but somehow the new organ of the little church gave him greater pleasure.

"The people were so happy about having it," he had that day explained to Father Darcy. His wonderful seminary on the heights had once seemed the greatest thing in the world to him, but now it was less than the marble altars Mark had ordered for the little church only yesterday.

He remembered the crowds that had hung upon his eloquence in the city, but now he knew that his very soul was mirrored in the simple discourses to his poor in Siha.s.set.

"I couldn't go back," he said to the burning log, "I couldn't be great again when I know how much true happiness there is in being little."

Then he lifted his eyes to where, from above the fireplace, there smiled down at him the benign face of Pius the Tenth. "Poor Pope," he said. "He has to be great, but this is what he would love. He never could get away from it quite. Doesn't he preach to the people yet, so as to feel the happiness of the pastor, and thus forget for an hour the fears and trials of the ruler?"

The fire was dying, but he did not stoop to replenish it. His thoughts were too holy and comforting to be broken in upon. But they were broken by Ann's knock.

"That McCarthy is sick ag'in," she said. "'Tis a nice time for the likes of him to be botherin' yer Riverence. Will I tell them ye'll go in the mornin'?"

"No, Ann, tell them I'll go now."

"Can't ye have wan night in peace?"

"McCarthy _is_ peace, Ann. You don't understand."

No, Ann didn't understand. She only saw more labor. She didn't understand that it was only this that the priest needed to crown the glory of his day.

So Father Murray took his coat and hat and, with a light step, went out--a father going to the son who needed him.

He was not a bit tired when he came back to the blazing logs; but now he was perturbed, borne down by a prescience of coming change. From one point to another he walked--slowly, uneasily, pausing now and then.

Finally he stood by his desk. Above it hung a large crucifix. His lips moved in prayer as he gazed on the crucified Christ. Then idly he picked up a book. It fell open in his hand, and he gazed thoughtfully at the oft-scanned page. How many times had he pondered those two lines,

"I fear to love thee, sweet, because Love's the amba.s.sador of loss."

Thus read the priest who felt that peace was no longer possible. For a little while, perhaps--but not for long. The call would come again, and he would have to answer. He read once more, changing one word as he spoke the lines softly to himself,

"I fear to love thee, 'peace,' because Love's the amba.s.sador of loss."

Yet, even in his vague unrest, this prelate who through humility had found the greater love, recalled his own words to Mark Griffin: "No one has lost what he sincerely seeks to find." Was not the past merely a preparation for the future? Peace might be found in any kind of duty.

He looked up into the face of the sculptured Christ, and a swiftly-receding wave of agony swept across his mobile features, while his hand clenched tightly. "A soldier of the Cross," he murmured, and the hand was raised in quick salute. "Thy will be done." It was his final renunciation of self.

Sinking into the chair before the desk, he sat there with bowed head.

At last he arose and, the book still in his hand, went back to his chair by the fire. As he sat looking into the flames, his old dreams of greater works rose up before him--those things that had been quite forgotten in his days of sorrow. They were coming back to life, and he began to be half afraid of these, his dream children. Already they seemed too real.

Ann, all unconscious of his presence, opened the door; she paused, hesitatingly silent.

"Well, Ann?" The voice was gentle, resigned.

"A telegram, Father."

He took the envelope which somehow reminded him of the yellow flames of his fire and seemed reaching out to grasp him. With a murmured prayer he tore it open. It was a message from the Bishop. The words were few, but only too easily understood by the priest who sought obscurity:

"Forgive me, my friend. I had not the heart to tell you the truth. I need you now, and then, perhaps, those greater than I. You may stay but a very little while. Come to me immediately after Christmas."

The flame-colored message went to its kind amid the great logs of the fireplace. Father Murray picked up his book again, turned its pages, and read softly to himself:

"Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?

Ah! must-- Designer Infinite-- Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?"