Part 40 (1/2)
The child laughed.
”It ith a good day,” he made answer. ”There ith the woof-garden and there ith ithe-cream.”
”And which is the best?”
”Bofe,” said the child.
”That's right, little soldier; and what did you do in the garden?”
The child clapped his hands.
”I played,” he responded; ”an' I'm goin' to play ball on my legs when I mend.”
One of the nurses came and stood for a moment at the foot of the bed.
”He has learned a hymn for you,” she said. ”He is teaching the other children to sing--aren't you, baby?”
”Yeth.”
”And you'll sing for the father?”
The child's mouth quivered with pleasure and his eyes gleamed. Then his gay little voice rang out in a shrill treble:
”Yeth, Jesuth lovths me, Yeth, Jesuth lovths me, Yeth, Jesuth lovths me, The Bible tells me so.”
He ended with a triumphant little gasp and lay smiling at the suns.h.i.+ne.
A quarter of an hour later Father Algarcife returned to the street. It was Friday, and at two o'clock he was to be in the sacristy, where it was his custom to receive the members of his parish. It was the most irksome of his duties, and he fulfilled it with a repugnance that had not lessened with time. Now it represented even a greater strain than usual. He had been soothed by his visit to the hospital, and he dreaded the friction of the next few hours--the useless advice delivered, the trivialities responded to, the endless details of fas.h.i.+onable foibles that would be heard. He wondered, resentfully, if there were not some means by which this office might be abolished or delivered into the hands of an a.s.sistant. Then his eyes shot humor as he imagined Miss Vernish, Mrs. Ryder, or a dozen others consenting to receive spiritual instruction from a lesser priest with a snub-nose.
As he pa.s.sed a book-shop in Union Square, a man reading the posters upon the outside attracted his notice.
”Oh, I say, Mr. Algarcife!”
He stopped abruptly, recognized the speaker, and nodded.
The other went on with a heated rush of words.
”Those are fine things of yours, those sermons. I congratulate you.”
”Thank you.”
”Yes, they are fine. But, I say, you got the better of the _Scientific Weekly_ writer. It was good.”
”I don't know,” responded Father Algarcife. ”It is a good deal in the way you look at it, I suppose.”
”Not at all. I am not prejudiced--not in the least--never knew anybody less so. But he isn't your equal in controversy, by a long shot.”
A sudden boyish laugh broke from Father Algarcife--a laugh wrung from him by the pressure of an overwhelming sense of humor. ”I don't think it is a question of equality,” he replied, ”but of points of view.”