CHAPTER XVII

In which one surprise follows so closely upon the heels of another that Masters Esmond and Rieler lose power of speech and Will Benton strikes a blow which will live forever in the traditions of Campion College.

“Follow me—quietly,” whispered Father Keenan to the two boys, Clarence and John.

In single file the three threaded their way through the shrubbery. Suddenly the Rector paused, and put his finger to his lips.

“Listen,” he said.

“Ben,” came a clear, sweet voice, “do you believe everything that the Catholic Church believes and teaches?”

There was a response pitched so low that the listeners as they pressed steadily forward failed to hear it.

“And do you forgive all who have injured you?”

Clarence thought he could detect Ben’s voice saying—“Yes, yes: I do.”

“And do you forgive Pete?”

“Yes, from my heart.” The three were now quite near and the deeper voice of Ben could clearly be heard.

“And, Ben,” continued the silvery voice, “you wish to die a Catholic?”

“I do—I do.”

“And to be baptized?”

“Yes, Dora.”

“You must know, Ben, that when no priest can be had, anyone may, in case of necessity, baptize. Now, I am going to the river for water; and while I’m gone tell God that you are sorry for your sins.”

Suddenly, the flap of the tent was thrown back, and Dora, like some heavenly apparition, stood revealed. Her face was stained with tears. For the rest, she was in modesty, in expression in dress—blue and white—a Child of Mary.

“Dora,” cried Clarence, no longer able to contain himself. “O, Clarence,” cried the child throwing herself into his arms. “Pete has killed Ben. He stabbed him an hour ago, because Ben defended the statue of our Blessed Mother from Pete and his wife. They were going to burn it.”

“Dora,” said Clarence, “there’s a priest here.” And he pointed to Father Keenan.

“O, thank God! thank God! He has sent you to prepare Ben,” and the child threw herself at Father Keenan’s feet, and in all reverence, kissed his hand.

The practical Father Keenan, as she did so, took the glass from her fingers, and handed it to Rieler.

“Run to the river, John, and get some water.” Then raising Dora kindly, and throwing his hands above his head, the preconcerted signal, the Rector hastened into the tent.

“Dora! Dora!” came a deep voice as the girl was about to follow the priest.

Clarence turned. Will Benton, pale as a sheet, his eyes starting from their sockets, was hastening toward them. He was holding out his arms toward the girl, amazement and incredulity upon his face.

Dora turned. An astounding change came at once upon her face at sight of Will Benton. Pure joy irradiated it.

“O Will! my dear Brother Will,” she cried; and darting forward threw herself into his outstretched arms.

“But,” cried Will, as he caught her up and pressed her to his bosom, “you were drowned. We buried you.”

“No, you didn’t, Will. Thanks to our Blessed Mother, I was saved. A gypsy saved me, Will; and now he’s dying in my tent, dying because he gave his life to save me from the gypsy leader and to preserve our Blessed Mother’s statue from insult. Come, Will, let us see him before he dies.”

Clarence and John Rieler, grouped together and holding each others hands, stood stock-still gazing open mouthed. They looked at each other, as Will and Dora made for the tent, with unutterable awe. Speech was inadequate; and still linked together they followed the brother and sister within.

On Dora’s couch, above him the dear statue for which he had given his life, lay Ben, the sweat and the pallor of death upon his face. On one side, his wife was staunching vainly a gash in his side. On the other, leaned the Rector, talking earnestly in low tones to the dying man. No king could have been more stately in life than was Ben in his dying moments. No saint could have been more humble. Crouching in one corner, wide-eyed and silent, were Ben’s three little children.

“Are all here?” asked the Rector rising and gazing around. “I want you all to see Ben baptized.”

“O dear Ben, we are all here and we all love you,” cried Dora. “And here’s my brother Will, come to see you, too. Will, Ben has been so good to me. I love him as though he were another father.”

The dying man turned dark, wistful eyes to the big brother.

“Will you forgive me? I love Dora,” he said simply.

“And I love anyone that is kind to my sister,” boomed forth Will Benton’s hearty voice. “Your hand, Ben. May God be as good to you as you have been to her.”

“Clarence,” cried the dying man, “will you forgive me too. I have been bad, I am sorry.”

Clarence essayed to speak, but before he could enunciate a syllable fell to blubbering. But he caught Ben’s hand and fondled it.

“I am glad I was stabbed,” said Ben simply, “in trying to save that statue of the very good woman who was the mother of God, I believe. I want to be baptized.”

John Rieler was dabbing his eyes.

“Let all kneel down,” said the Rector.

Even the gypsy children, following the example of Dorcas, fell upon their knees, and then, the priest pouring water on Ben’s head said solemnly, “I baptize thee in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”

Dora slipped over and pressed her lips to the newly regenerated one’s brow. Dorcas followed the child’s example and, turning to the priest, said:

“Father, baptize me and my children.”

“Not yet, my child,” said Father Keenan. “Wait a little longer, so it can be done in church. Boys, kneel down, while we say the prayers for the dying.”

Suddenly Ben raised his head.

“Clarence and Dora,” he cried.

“Yes,” answered both coming to his bedside.

“Take care of Dorcas, my wife, and my children. Make them good Catholics.”

“Yes, Ben,” said Dora.

“Yes, Ben,” said Clarence.

“O,” said the poor fellow—poor, that is according to the world’s standard—“how happy I am. I am ready to——”

He fell back unconscious.

The Rector who had taken out his “Excerpts from the Roman Ritual,” began, at once, the Litany of the Dying. Before the final invocation was uttered, Ben, the simple, the loving, the repentant, breathed his last.

“Let all leave the tent,” said Father Keenan, on coming to an end of the prayers for the dying, “except the wife and the children. Wait for me without. I will be with you in a few minutes.”

Dora, weeping freely, caught her big brother’s arm. Clarence and John followed the two. There was, quite near the river, an avenue formed by nature, a clear space of nearly a hundred yards in length, bounded on the river side by willows and cottonwoods with a dense growth of shrubbery below, on the other by majestic elms. Up and down this court of nature walked brother and sister followed by the two amazed boys. The stabbing of Ben, his beautiful death, the reuniting of brother and sister had come together so closely, one upon the heels of the other, that Clarence and John were almost speechless. When they did speak, it was in interjections.

Will quickly comforted his little sister. His task was, indeed, not so difficult. News from home, news of the dear ones is to the exile one of the most engrossing things in the world. And it was all good news. Everyone was well, business was flourishing; the only sorrow that had fallen upon the family was the loss of Dora—and that sorrow was now turned into exquisite joy for Will, as it would be for his parents and the children when they received the good tidings by wire that very day.

“And, Will,” said Dora, “I don’t regret all that has happened. It was bitter to be away from mama and all the dear ones at home; and it was hard to miss Holy Communion; and I was so afraid of Pete and his wife all the time; but it’s all over now. Tomorrow, please God, I will go to Communion once more; and then home, home, home!”

The child’s eyes shone with joy. They had reached the end of the avenue, and turning started back. Clarence and John were now in the advance.

“As likely as not,” said Will, holding his sister’s hand, “father, on getting the telegram tonight, will take the train at once. I’m sure he will; and if mother can get away, she will come, too. I’ll wire them on the road back to Campion. But why, Dora, do you say you’re not sorry for all that happened?”

He paused, as he asked this question, directly before a thick clump of bushes, and, catching Dora’s two hands in his, gazed lovingly and eagerly into her starry eyes.

“Because,” answered the girl simply, “I believe I have helped to save the soul of dear, good, kind Ben. Oh, how happy I was when the priest poured the water on him and baptized him in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”

Will Benton, still gazing into the eyes of his sister, thought he heard proceeding from the bushes which he was facing a low, sibilant sound. It was not the hiss of a snake; it was the hiss of hate. His keen eyes darted from Dora’s and peered into the bushes. In a flash he threw the girl violently to one side, flinging her to the ground, and with a spring crashed into the shrubbery. He was not a moment too soon. Behind the bushes, an immense boulder in his right hand, a man, whose eyes shot hate and whose features were demon-like with passion, was in the very act of bringing it down upon the unsuspecting girl’s head.

It was not a moment too soon: Ben caught the man’s upraised arm and gave it a wrench which sent the boulder thudding to the earth. That wrenched arm was never to be used again. A howl of pain arose which was stilled as suddenly as it began; for, still holding the paralysed arm in his grasp, Will Benton struck out with his left hand. It was an awful blow. Its receiver as it struck him under the jaw lost voice, and crumpled to the earth.

“Oh!” cried Dora, who had arisen, “it’s Pete.”

Will Benton drew the girl to his side.

“I know now,” he exclaimed, “why you feared him. I saw his face for a second, and there was murder in it, murder and hell.”

The two boys who, hearing the short-lived scream of the gypsy, had turned in time to see the memorable blow which had brought Pete to earth, were gazing in awe at the Prefect of the Sodality. It was something to be remembered. It was a blow which was to go down in the traditions of Campion College. For Pete, the murderer of Ben, the would-be murderer of Dora, never came to face trial. He lingered for several weeks. But the blow made trial unnecessary.

“O Will!” cried John Rieler, “how did you manage to see him hiding there?”

“He gave himself away,” answered the young giant. “His fury and hatred got the better of him. When Dora spoke about Ben’s dying a Catholic and used the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, he couldn’t stand it. He had his arm raised holding that stone, and was just about to bring it down on Dora’s head. A hiss escaped him, and I spied him while his arm was still moving: and—and—I really don’t know how I caught him in time.”

Father Keenan arrived at this juncture; and the two boys and Dora all began explaining at once. Out of the babel he gathered that Pete who, after stabbing Ben, took flight with his wife and kinsfolk, had returned—as murderers sometimes do—to find out the result of the stabbing; how his hatred goaded him on to attempt Dora’s life, and how the brother with lightning speed had inflicted with his one hand a wrench, and with the other a blow which no one who had seen them could ever forget.

“Dan,” called Father Keenan to the chauffeur, having ascertained that Pete was alive, “get busy. Bring Pete to the Sheriff at Lynxville; hire another automobile—a large one for Dorcas and her children. We are going to bring Ben’s body to Prairie du Chien. I shall go with them. And come back here as fast as you can. We’ll be ready to start long before that.”

The Rector and the chauffeur put the insensible Pete in the tonneau.

“One moment, Dan,” said Will Benton, who had taken out a pad and written a few lines. “If Father Rector has no objection, I’d like you to send this telegram to my father.” Then he read aloud: “Dora alive, well, and found. She is with me. Hurrah!—Will Benton.”

“Good for you, Will,” said the Rector. “Your mind works as well as your fists. Thank you, for reminding me.”

Before the return of the chauffeur, the Gypsy camp was dismantled, the tent, converted into a shroud for Ben, the furniture abandoned, and the precious statue placed in the hands of Dora, who vowed she would keep it as long as she lived.

Master John Rieler took little hand in these preparations for departure. He could not remove his eyes from the giant Prefect of the Sodality. Will Benton was considered the gentlest boy in attendance at Campion College. John was bursting to be back and to tell the boys the wonderful blow he had seen with his own eyes.

The kind Rector gave all his attention to Dorcas and her children. He soothed as much as was in his power the awful hours when death is the family visitant. The machines arrived sooner than they were expected. The Rector went off first with the sorrowing wife, her children and the dead.

John still stood staring wide-eyed at Will Benton; remained thus while the young man assisted his sister into the machine and followed himself.

“Oh, it is excellent to have a ‘giant’s strength,’” said Clarence, catching John’s arm.

Rieler came to from his trance, and smiled enthusiastically. “Oh, Crickey!” he answered, “you bet it is.”

CHAPTER XVIII

In which there are a joyful return, a sad duty and a picnic, ending with a reunion of loved ones.

The ride back to Campion College, so far as the boys and Dora were concerned, was a thing of joy. Dora nestled beside her brother and gazed her fill of that splendid young man. John Rieler, seated on the other side, took his share of the gazing; love was in Dora’s eyes; admiration, deep, unspeakable admiration, in John’s. Occasionally, he put forth a timid hand to feel the muscle of the strong left arm.

“Will is a southpaw,” he explained to Clarence, when that watchful youth happened to catch him in the act.

“What does he diet on?” asked Clarence seriously.

But Dora’s admiration was not confined to her big brother. She drew from the willing lips of Clarence an account of his arrival at Campion College. In detailing Rieler’s share in the event Clarence waxed so eloquent that the young water-rat flushed furiously.

In a word, the little party, very soon resolved itself into a highly satisfactory mutual admiration society, of which Will Benton, in view of his recent exploit, was incontrovertibly the uncrowned king.

“Clarence,” said the giant, “it is owing to you that my sister has been found. You have put our family under an obligation we shall never forget.”

“If John hadn’t fished me out of the river, she’d be with the gypsies yet,” said Clarence. “Thank John and not me.”

“And,” said John, “if you hadn’t cranked Pete’s hand and struck out with your good left arm there wouldn’t be any Dora to save. Thank yourself.”

“It is Dora that has saved me,” said Clarence.

“I? How, Clarence?”

“Well, you got me to thinking right about the Catholic Church. I was almost ready to join when I left you by the river route. The boys at Campion—especially John and Will—got me to thinking of it still more. But when I heard you as we got near your tent, talking to Ben and asking him if he wanted to be baptized, there seemed to be a sort of explosion in my brain. When it passed away, I was determined to be a Catholic. All hesitation was gone. If that Church doesn’t save my soul, nothing can do it.”

“Say, Clarence,” said Dora with a smile, “how about that lawyer?”

“Lawyer?”

“Yes: you proposed to adopt me. Can’t we find the right man at Prairie du Chien? Clarence,” exclaimed the child to her brother, “told me one day at the gypsy camp that he proposed to adopt me, because he had no sisters of his own.”

“I’d be delighted,” broke in Will Benton, “to have you as a brother, Clarence: you have been in very deed, a brother to my little sister. She told me all about your lively scrap with Ezra. And I’m sure my father and mother would make our home yours.”

Clarence, thinking of his own dear ones, struggled hard to keep down his emotion. His lips quivered.

“O, I beg pardon!” said Will much confused. “I forgot.” And in a few words he told Dora of the railroad accident.

“Clarence,” said Dora, “did you pray to our Blessed Mother for the safety of your parents?”

“Yes;” said Clarence humbly: “I thought of what you would do, and so I prayed to her.”

“I’ll join with you. And tomorrow, Clarence, I’m going to Communion again. Oh, I never felt so happy in all my life. I’m going tomorrow.”

“We’ll all go tomorrow,” added Rieler, “and we’ll all pray for your parents.”

And then the four innocents fell to laughing and talking till at length Campion College was reached.

Dora at once demanded a confessor; and while John Rieler hastened to do her bidding, Clarence and her brother brought her to the students’ chapel. For the first time in four long, long months, Dora had the privilege of visiting the Blessed Sacrament. Presently a confessor arrived, the young sinner entered the confessional, and came out within a few minutes in an almost perceptible aura of peace and joy.

The President, in the meantime, had returned. He was awaiting them outside.

“Well,” he said, “everything has been arranged. Ben is to be buried at the Bohemian Church tomorrow at seven o’clock. Will Benton, you should serve; and you may get John Rieler to help you.”

“Thank you, Father,” cried Will.

“On Sunday next—the day after—Ben’s wife and children will be received into the Church. They are now quartered with a friend of mine in the lower town.”

Dora grew happier than ever.

“I want to be received with them, Father,” pleaded Clarence.

“I can’t grant you that permission, I fear, Clarence. Besides, you need instruction.”

“But I’ve had instruction already—at least,” Clarence added, correcting himself, “I’ve had some. Dora told me a lot, and I’ve done some reading.”

“And I’ll teach you enough, Clarence, before Sunday,” said the girl.

“Well, we’ll see,” said Father Keenan.

The group, as this conversation went on, was moving slowly towards the concrete walk which fronts the entire line of the main Campion College buildings. In the meantime, Master John Rieler had been holding spellbound nearly every lad of the Junior division with his account of Dora’s rescue, and of Will Benton’s wrench and blow. As the party then reached the walk, coincidently with the conclusion of John Rieler’s exciting narrative, the small boys, detecting their approach, spread out and, keeping at a respectful distance, devoured with their eyes Clarence, who swam to Campion; Dora, who lived a gypsy life four months; and, though his face had been familiar enough, the big Prefect of the Sodality. It is only fair to state that it was to Will Benton that they paid the most respectful attention. He was the hero of the hour. The Rector—a most unusual thing—was hardly considered.

Dora smiled and waved her hand.

“Three cheers for the Gypsy Queen,” yelled an enthusiast. They were given with wild and artless energy.

“And three cheers for Strong-Arm,” piped another. The cheers were deafening: Bedlam had broken loose.

“Let’s run,” said Will to Dora.

The child took him at his word: and the two darted along the walk, and tripped up the steps of the middle building.

The Rector with Clarence caught up with them shortly.

“Dora,” he said, “we have no place for you here; but there’s a nice family just north of our residence building who’ll keep you as long as you’re with us. I’ve sent them word already, and they have prepared a fine supper—a sort of banquet, for you and Will and Clarence and John Rieler.”

“Did I hear my name?” asked John, just then joining the group.

“Yes, you go to the banquet, too.”

“Oh,” said John, “this whole thing is like taking candy from a child. Say, Clarence,” he added in a whisper, “they’ve got a first-class cook there, and I am hungry.”

“I feel that way myself,” admitted Clarence.

“I’ll wager,” said the Rector, his eyes twinkling, “that you two are talking about the supper.”

“We just said we were hungry,” explained Rieler.

“For that matter, I’m famishing myself,” said the Prefect of the Sodality.

“And I’m hungry, too,” added Dora.

“Very good: clear out all of you, and you boys will be back in time for night prayers.”

And away they scampered like children—the big fellow, “Strong-Arm,” leading in the romp.

The funeral of the faithful and well-beloved Ben was simple and solemn, and the mourners fit though few. The Reverend Rector himself offered up the holy sacrifice of the Mass. Very quietly the simple cortege proceeded to the Catholic burying ground; and when the last shovelful of earth was thrown on the coffin Dora stepped forward and laid upon the mound the flowers such as Ben once joyed to collect and place at the shrine of “that good woman who was the Mother of God.”

They were scarcely outside the graveyard, when the Rector addressed them:

“You have all had too much of tragedy these last days for your tender years. Dora is a free agent; Clarence is simply our guest; they have a right to a holiday. As for you, Will, I give you the day in honor of the efficiency of your strong arm; and you, John, for saving Clarence.”

The long faces shortened; eyes dimmed with tears grew bright. A holiday to the school boys! What trouble, what sorrow can hold its own against a holiday?

“I’ve secured a fine motor-boat for you——”

“I can run a motor all right,” broke in Rieler his face deeply gashed by a smile.

“And I suggest,” continued the Rector, “Pictured Rocks and a ride down the river.”

“Ah-h-h-h!” gurgled Dora.

“Oh-h-h-h!” cried Clarence.

“Say—say,” blurted John, “what about our breakfast? We’ve just been to Communion, you know, all except Clarence, and he hasn’t eaten yet.”

“There are some things, John,” observed the Rector, “that you never forget. However, I haven’t overlooked that particular item either. All you need do is to run down to the Prairie du Chien boat landing. You’ll find a man there, John Durkin, the boat-owner, who’s waiting to see that you get off with everything in good order. Then, John, you motor over to North McGregor, and bring the party up to Mr. Berry’s hotel. He’s heard of your wonderful adventures, and you are his breakfast guests.”

“I took a meal there with my pa,” whispered the radiant Rieler, “when he came up to see me last year. I’m glad I’m hungry,” he added simply.

“I should think, John,” observed the Rector, “that you must have that cause for rejoicing a good many times in the day. After your breakfast, you must get together provisions enough for a good dinner. The commissary department will be in charge of Will Benton. Here, Will, are a few dollars for that purpose. Mr. Berry will help you do the buying.”

“And I’ll be the cook,” said Dora, skipping about in uncontrollable glee.

“The only thing left for me,” said Clarence with his most radiant smile, “is to be dishwasher. I accept.”

“Hurry away now,” continued the Rector; and at the words they were all dashing down the street, Dora in the lead.

“Last one down is a nigger,” yelled Rieler.

It should not be accounted to the discredit of that happy lad that he did not succeed in overtaking the fleet-footed Dora. Not for nothing had she lived for four months in the open. As a matter of fact Dora retained her lead—owing, it may be, to the chivalry of Clarence and Will. Nevertheless, John, despite his efforts, was the last, of which fact all were careful to remind him till he had succeeded in setting the motor-boat whirling off toward North McGregor.

Of that happy morning, of the breakfast at Berry’s hotel, where John Rieler by his execution regained the prestige he had lost in the race, of the ride down the river, during which the hills of Iowa threw back in multiplied echoes happy laughter and gleeful shouts, of the ascent to the heights above Pictured Rocks, where Dora led the way skippingly, and paused not for breath till they reached the summit; of the lively chatter and flying jest; of the tumbles, unnecessary most of them, as they went down; of the wonderful dinner prepared—gypsy-wise—by Dora at the gypsy fire set going by Clarence; of the ride down the river till they paused and surveyed the very place where Clarence’s boat was taken in tow by “good dear Ben”—of all these things there is a record in the unwritten book of sheer joy. There never was a jollier, happier party on the broad bosom of the upper Mississippi. A little joke evoked thrills of laughter; a good one, an explosion. No pen is adequate to give an idea of how these pure, innocent and loving hearts laughed and jested and drank deep of the unpolluted joy of life.

They turned their boats at sunset homeward; and, as the twilight began to creep from its hiding place in the East, Clarence begged Dora to sing them a song of her gypsy exile.

The clear, pure voice—the sweeter, the more pathetic, doubtless, for all Dora’s long days of suffering—rose and added its beauty to the splendors of the dying day. Dora had just finished “Mother Dear, O Pray for Me,” and at the request of all, was about to begin another hymn, when Will Benton cried out:

“Look: there’s a boat making for us from Smith’s Creek. I believe it’s the Campion.”

“So it is,” cried Rieler, keen of eye. “And Father Rector’s in it. And——”

Suddenly a scream of joy rang from Dora’s throat.

“Oh! oh!” she cried. “It’s mama and papa!”

CHAPTER XIX

In which John Rieler fails to finish his great speech, and Clarence is seriously frightened.

There were, as the two boats came together, shouts and joyous cries and a quick interchange of crews. Dora was in the arms of father and mother. Laughter and tears—the tears of strong emotion—were intermingled with incoherent sobs. Feelings were beyond the power of human language.

It was then, in the midst of all this, that Master John Rieler, filled with an enthusiasm which could no longer be bottled up, mounted the prow of the boat, of which he had that day been the happy engineer, and raising his cap aloft, bellowed at the top of his voice:

“Three cheers for——” But John did not finish this splendid sentence, and to this day no one knows for whom he intended the signal honor; for, happening to wave his cap wildly with these opening words, he lost his balance, and plumped into the water.

“Oh!” cried Mr. Benton, pulling off his coat.

“Stay where you are,” called the grinning Rector. “Don’t hurt Rieler’s feelings. To go to his help would be less sensible than carrying coals to Newcastle.”

John rose just then, and, shaking his locks, smiled graciously at the crews of the two boats.

“We don’t want you,” said the Rector.

“Thank you, Father,” John made grateful answer, and once more sank for a long, delicious dive. And thus did the youth continue to disport himself while huggings were renewed and Babel continued beside him.

“But, Father,” said Will Benton, “what I can’t understand is this! Dora was lost; after two weeks her body was recovered and she was buried in her coffin from our church.”

“You saw the coffin, Will?”

“Yes, Father.”

“But did you see Dora in it?”

“No, Father; you told us she was disfigured and bloated from being so long in the water; and you said we were not to see her.”

“Exactly. The facts are these: On one day, fourteen bodies of the flood victims were recovered. Very soon all were identified except that of a girl dressed in a white dress with a blue sash. I went to view the body, and really couldn’t make up my mind whether it was Dora’s, or not. Everybody insisted that it must be Dora. In the meantime, your mother was so broken-hearted by anxiety that it looked as if she would lose her mind. It occurred to me that even the recovery of the body and the Holy Mass over it would set her at rest, so I took the benefit of the doubt, and allowed the corpse in white and blue to be buried as though it were Dora’s. But mind, I never said it was Dora. I allowed the others to do that without contradicting them; and also my intention in having that Mass offered was that if Dora were alive, the Mass should go to the poor abandoned child who took her place.”

“Do you see,” said Dora, “how good our Blessed Mother is? That little girl because she was in blue and white got a Mass and Christian burial.”

“Hey, John Rieler,” called the Rector fifteen minutes later, “haven’t you had enough swimming yet?”

“If it’s all the same to you, Father Rector, I’d like to swim home.” John, while disporting in the water, had taken off his shoes and thoughtfully aimed them at the head of the admiring and envious Clarence.

“It isn’t all the same to me,” responded the Rector. “Here, give me your hand. Now suppose we start.”

And as they spun homeward, Dora told her wondering parents the tale of four months on the open road.

“And,” concluded the child, “when I think of dear Ben, who died a saint, and of Dorcas and her children, who join the Church tomorrow, and of Clarence who is going to join——”

“You bet I am,” Clarence broke in from the other boat.

“I can’t say that I am sorry.”

“To those who love God all things work together unto good,” quoted Father Keenan.

“And when I recall,” said Mr. Benton catching Dora by the arms and beaming with joy and gratitude as he looked upon her radiant face, “how four months ago, you were pale, anaemic, and sentenced by the doctor to death within a few months——”

“What!” gasped Will.

“Yes; sentenced to death. The doctor said the child had no sort of constitution.”

“That doctor was loony,” said Rieler indignantly. “You ought to see her run. Those fawns you read about in poetry books haven’t anything on her.”

“I should say not,” added Clarence no less indignantly. “You should have seen her skipping up Pictured Rocks Hill. She never lost her wind, never turned a hair, and she’s as sure-footed as a chamois.”

“All the same,” said the happy father, “the doctor was right. He was a specialist and knew his business. He told me to keep her in the open as much as possible; he told me so the very day before the gypsies ran away with her. For four months she has lived the life the doctor prescribed—and lived it, I rather think, more abundantly than had she lived at home. Now, look at her. She is the picture of health.”

“She’s the picture of something more than health,” whispered Clarence into the ear of her big brother. “Do you remember those lines of Wordsworth:

“‘And beauty horn of murmuring soundShall pass into her face’?”

“‘And beauty horn of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face’?”

“I don’t read much poetry,” admitted Will Benton.

“Well, I’ve often thought of those lines in regard to Dora, only I make them read:

“‘And beauty born of heavenly thoughtHath passed into her face.’

“‘And beauty born of heavenly thought

Hath passed into her face.’

Good old Ben said she was an angel. If she isn’t she is, as the gentlemanly druggists say, ‘something just as good.’”

“Beware of imitations,” said John Rieler.

Whereupon to the manifest discomfort of those in the boat, John and Clarence set playfully to punching each other.

“Well,” sighed Clarence, as he jumped from the boat at the Campion landing, “now for a quiet hour before going to bed.”

“Don’t forget supper,” said John.

“I don’t; but that is a quiet affair.”

“All the same,” continued John, “I’m going to keep near you. If anything happens, I want to be around.”

Then came Dora with her father and mother to greet Clarence; and the child, as she introduced him, made such comments on their short but lovely acquaintance as caused Clarence to blush to the roots of his hair.

“Remember, Clarence,” said Mr. Benton, “that our home is yours, day or night, winter or summer, in any year, in any season. God sent you to our little girl.”

“I think,” said Clarence modestly, “that it was, the other way around. God sent Dora to me. It’s made me—different. Everything I see and hear now I see and hear from a different angle—and a better one.”

As they walked up toward the college, Clarence, ably assisted by the eager John Rieler, pointed out their path of progress toward Campion on his first arrival. He was at pains to expatiate on John’s delicacy as to introducing him personally to the Rector.

“It wasn’t so very wrong, anyhow,” said Rieler.

“Didn’t God send me to save Clarence from drowning?”

“Don’t reason that way,” remonstrated Will Benton, whose reputation as a student of logic was not brilliant only because his prowess on the athletic field blinded the boys to what were in their eyes less shining qualities, “Out of evil God draws good; he took occasion of your breaking the rule to save Clarence’s life.”

“I’m beginning,” said Clarence solemnly, “to lose all faith in the bright-eyed goddess of adventure. As Betsy Prigg said of Sairey Gamp’s Mrs. Harris, I don’t believe there ain’t no sich a person.”

“What are you talking about now?” asked Rieler. “Who’s Betsy Prigg? Who’s Sairey Gamp? Who’s Mrs. Harris? The bright-eyed goddess has gone to your head, and placed a few bats in your belfry.”

“John Rieler,” said Clarence, “at your age you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You ought to know your Dickens. Read Martin Chuzzlewit, and start tonight.”

“No,” continued Clarence, “I disavow here and now, forever and forever, the squint-eyed goddess of adventure. I thought I was in her hands; but now I firmly believe that all along I was in the loving hands of God.”

Father Keenan, who had preceded the party, was now seen coming down the steps of the faculty building. He was doing his best to carry off his Indian immobility of face, but with partial success.

“Clarence,” he cried, “come here.”

“Another adventure,” said Rieler.

Clarence turned deathly pale. Something had happened—something serious.

“Oh, Father, what is it?” he cried running to the side of the Rector.

CHAPTER XX

In which there is another joyful reunion, and Clarence presents an important letter to the Rector of Campion College.

“Clarence,” said Father Keenan, “there’s good news.”

“Oh, what is it? Were their lives saved? Were they unhurt?”

“Just forty miles to the East of the accident your father received a telegram. It seems there was some mining trouble in the Southwest, and he was ordered to go there at once. Both your father and mother got off at a junction and so missed the accident.”

“Oh, thank God! thank God! And when shall I see them?”

“Very soon, Clarence. On the very day you arrived here, I sent telegrams to different cities, and had advertisements inserted in the most prominent papers in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, Cleveland and Cincinnati. The ads. read something like this: Any friends or relations of Clarence Esmond falsely reported drowned are requested to write or call upon the President of Campion College, Prairie du Chien, Wis.”

“Did you really do that, Father?”

“Yes, my boy,” answered the Rector, as the two went up the steps and proceeded in the direction of the infirmary. “And it seems that in New York a member of the firm that sent the telegram to your father read the ad. He at once wired your parents—and—and—” the Rector paused.

They were standing just outside the parlor, from which came the sound of voices.

“They’re here! They’re here?” cried Clarence, and burst into the parlor.

Father George Keenan considerately waited outside until the first rapture of reunion should have died away; waited and thought with gratitude to God of his part in a romance of the upper Mississippi, a romance of childhood and innocence, and the sure, guiding hand of Divine Providence.

The parlor door opened presently, and Clarence came out.

“Oh, Father Rector, won’t you please come in? Say, Pa, this is the priest who fed me when I was hungry, clothed me when I was naked, took me in when I was abandoned, and treated me as if I was a prince in disguise. Say, Ma, look at him and thank him, if you can. I can’t.” And Clarence blubbered.

“Father Keenan,” said Mr. Esmond with quivering lips, “if I should think of trying to thank you, I should become absolutely dumb. I am helpless; and to think that you should be the member of an Order I’ve been abusing all my life.”

Mrs. Esmond, in turn, took the dismayed Father’s hand, and tried to speak. She failed; but her eyes spoke the gratitude her tongue could not utter.

“Don’t—don’t mention it,” said Father Keenan lamely and with a vivid blush. “I’m happier than I can say to have done anything for as fine and as gifted a boy as I have ever met.”

There came an awkward silence. The Rector was confused beyond measure; Mrs. Esmond had gathered her boy to her arms, and was fondling him as she had done when he was a little child. Mr. Esmond was endeavoring with but ill success to master his burst of emotion.

“Say, Pa,” cried Clarence, breaking away in excitement. “There’s one thing I want to say right off. You said I might choose my religion when I was fourteen. Well, I’ve chosen. I want to be a Catholic.”

“Certainly, my boy, certainly. I never thought of your joining that Faith; but you’ll be in good company.”

“And, Father Rector, may I be baptized?”

“Of course, Clarence, since your father so kindly consents.”

“And, Father, will you do it?”

“Gladly, Clarence.”

“Good! thank you. Come on,” and Clarence seized his hat.

“But what’s your hurry, Clarence?” asked Father Keenan, laying a detaining hand upon the eager neophyte.

“Isn’t this rather sudden, my boy?” inquired Mr. Esmond.

“It’s not at all sudden,” Clarence made answer. “I’ve been thinking about this and preparing for this ever since I met Dora. Do you think I want to go to bed to-night with original sin and all my life’s wickedness on my soul when I can get it off in a few minutes? Of course, I’m in a hurry.”

“Put your hat down, Clarence,” ordered the Rector. “But I promise you this: you’ll be baptized and made a child of God and heir of heaven before you go to bed tonight. And now, Mr. and Mrs. Esmond, I want you to come out and meet Dora, who did so much for Clarence and whom Clarence saved from the gypsies; John Rieler, who rescued Clarence from the river; and Dora’s parents and big brother. For the next hour, we are going to hold a symposium. Clarence will tell his story from the time he left McGregor till he took to the river; John Rieler will take up the theme and tell how he came to make Clarence’s acquaintance; I, myself, will describe the boy’s first appearance at Campion, and with the help of Will Benton will tell the tale of our visit to the gypsy camp and rescue of Dora.”

As everybody following hard upon introduction insisted upon talking at once, Father Keenan experienced no little difficulty in carrying out the proposed program. It was fully an hour before the story—the strange romance of the upper Mississippi—was clearly unfolded to the wondering grown folks.

“I say,” urged Clarence, when the various adventures had been adequately commented on, “isn’t it time for me to be baptized?”

“Oh,” said Dora. “Is it all arranged?”

“Yes, Dora.”

“And—and—may I be your godmother?”

“Delighted!” cried the boy. “Nothing could please me better.”

“You ought to know,” observed John Rieler, “that the Church has erected an impediment between godmother and godson. If you carry out that program, you two can never marry.”

“Marry!” cried Dora, “I’m not to marry. I’m to dedicate my life to Mary.”

“Marry!” remonstrated Clarence. “Who ever thought of such a thing? Dora and I don’t intend to discuss that subject ourselves; and we don’t”—here he looked severely at John—“care about hearing anyone else discuss it.”

“All right, Clarence,” said John, “if that’s the case I want to be godfather.”

After supper, Clarence, alone, went to the boys’ chapel, where for fifteen minutes he prayed and recalled in sorrow all the sins of his life. Then came Dora, John, Will and the two married couples followed by Father Keenan; and in the quiet of the evening Clarence Esmond filled with faith and love received upon his brow the regenerating waters of baptism and became a faithful child of the true Church.

On the next morning the three children and Will Benton attended the six o’clock Mass and together received Holy Communion.

Clarence frequently during that day pronounced it the happiest day of his life.

On Sunday evening Clarence, who had passed most of the time with his parents, entered Father Keenan’s room.

“Why, Clarence! How happy you look.”

“That’s because I’m a hypocrite, Father.”

“Surely, you haven’t come to bid me good-bye?”

“Oh, I should hope not, Father.” Here Clarence fumbled in his pocket. “This is a letter my Pa gave me to bring to you.”

“So you were godfather for Dorcas and her children!”

“Yes, Father Rector, and Dora was godmother. Pa says it was awful good of you to pay the expenses of Ben’s burial and to pay for the board of Dorcas and her little ones; but he’s going to do the rest. He has an interest in the ranch in the Southwest, and they need a woman to feed the men and keep the house. Dorcas gets the position.”

“Can she hold it?” asked the Rector.

“Oh, yes! Dora says that Dorcas cooks nicely and is fine at the needle, and is very neat.”

“I hope she’ll have a chance to go to church,” continued Father Keenan.

“There’s a church ten miles from the ranch; and the foreman is a good Catholic. He is to bring Dorcas every Sunday.”

“Excellent,” said the Rector.

“And did you hear about Pete?” asked Clarence.

“No; how is he?”

“Pa just got word. It took him thirty-six hours to recover from the blow that Will Benton gave him. He was unconscious all that time.”

“Let us hope and pray that God may bring him to repentance,” said the Rector.

“The jail doctor says he’ll never do harm again. And, Father, tomorrow Dorcas goes to Communion; then she’s coming up to bid you good-bye, and then off she starts to her new work.”

“Thank God,” said Father Keenan. “And now, Clarence, sit down while I read your father’s letter.”

And this is what Father Keenan read:

“My dear Father Keenan: I am trying to write what I have found it impossible to say. To borrow the language of my little boy—who, I believe, borrowed from the words of Christ in the New Testament—Clarence was hungry and you fed him, naked and you clothed him, and outcast and you took him in. He was sorrowful and you consoled him; orphaned, and, at the sacrifice of your precious time, you took the place of father and mother. He needed, too, someone to take hold of his complicated situation and you by telegram, telephone, letter and in every conceivable way unravelled the tangle within a few hours; and in doing so brought gladness to sad and suffering hearts; in a few hours, you effected the rescue of his dear little girl friend; and, when we arrived, had everything in the finest condition imaginable and everybody happy. In all this you were aided and abetted by that little saint, Dora—the most wonderful girl I have ever met—by John Rieler, that paragon of good-nature who saved my boy’s life; and by that prince of young men,Strong-ArmBenton, which quick performance at the gypsy camp will never be forgotten by those who hear it told.

“To have my boy the intimate of Will, Dora and Rieler—the most wonderful trio one could bring together—I esteem a rare privilege and an honor. Their friendship is touched with youth, and purity and faith.

“You will be glad to know, Reverend Father, that, in my opinion, Clarence is not altogether unworthy of such splendid companions. At Clermont School in New York, where he attended for three years, he maintained a reputation for cleanness of speech and delicacy of conduct, which, among the faculty, made him a marked boy. He was the center of a group—some seven or eight in number—who had professed and followed out lofty and lovely ideals. God, I know not why, has been singularly good to my boy, and kept him from dangers to morals only too common in these pagan days.

“The duty of thanking you, of showing you my gratitude, will be with me, I trust, a life task. I can never forget how when my little boy—a veritable Dan Cupid up to date—arrived you took him in hand.

“His entrance into the Church pleases me more, the more I think of it. When his mother gave up hope of ever seeing Clarence again, it seemed for a time as though she would lose her mind. She insisted that Clarence had been taken from her untimely because she had not lived up to the Catholic Faith, in which, as a child, she was baptized. It was in vain that I pointed out to her that she had not been brought up a Catholic, that she was raised a Protestant; that she had been in no way responsible. She would not be consoled. Finally, with my full approbation, she promised God that should Clarence be returned to us, she would once more embrace the Faith of her fathers. She intends to go to confession and receive Holy Communion before we bid an unwilling adieu to Campion. She has already called at St. Mary’s Academy and engaged a splendid nun there to give her a course of instructions.

“In a short time—by Christmas at the latest—I am going to join the Church that received Ben and Dorcas with the same arms of welcome as it receives the princes and potentates of the earth. This, my fixed determination, is sudden; but for all that, it is none the less firm. It came to me last night, as I watched the radiant Dora and the reverent John holding my boy, whose face was aflame with zeal and faith as you, Father, poured the water of baptism upon his head.

“And now, Father, I’ve been thinking much of what you did for my boy. There must be other cases like his—cases of boys being thrown upon you—not coming in the guise of Cupid, it is true—but coming to you asking for education, board and books; but without money. In memory, then, of your kindness to my little boy, I enclose you a check for five thousand dollars as a fund for a perpetual scholarship to carry year after year through Campion College some boy whom God has given brains and ambition, but denied money. And if God continues to bless me in my enterprises, this will not be the end, by any means, of my help in that same line.

“And now, one more matter of business. Clarence is bent on going to Campion College. He loves the grounds, the buildings, the boys, and, so far as he knows them, the faculty. His mother and I are almost as anxious that he should attend your school as he is. We intend to stay here for a week or ten days to get better acquainted with our dear little boy—dearer a thousandfold that, having been lost, he is found. We, therefore, beg of you, Father, as a special favor, to register the boy at once; but to allow us his company till we leave. His board and tuition expenses are to begin, of course, from the opening day of school—two weeks back. Before leaving, I will make you a check to cover his expenses for the entire year.

“This is the longest letter I have written since the time I was engaged to her who is now my wife. It is long because I have been endeavoring, with poor success, to express my gratitude. But the task is beyond me. Beyond me, too, is it to express the present happiness of my wife, of Clarence, of Dora and of

“Yours with a heart full of gratitude,

“Charles Esmond.”

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