"Well, anyway, I remember that the boy was made fun of by the whole neighborhood, and to revenge himself he gave her 'Cat Mother' for a nickname. He, too, is a bad one like his father. To tell the truth he never obeyed anybody, and dear knows where he is or what he's doing now. At least he's not like you two who came here to learn how to pray with Celestina." "Paula doesn't need to learn how to pray, Monsieur Breton," said Celestina, "she's known how to pray for years, not only for herself, but also for others." "For years, you say! And who then taught her to pray?" said the Breton surprised. "It was my father," said Paula quietly. "Your father! Well, he wasn't much like me, then; was he!" "No, he wasn't," and Paula without a sign of either fear or abhorrence looked compassionately at the brutalized face that confronted her. "And you don't live with him any more?" "No," said Paula; "father is in heaven." "And whatever would you do if you had a father like me?" and the poor Breton looked at her keenly. Paula sat a moment with closed eyes. She recalled the strong noble face and figure of her dear father and asked God to give her a reply to the poor drunkard's question. "I think," she said at last, "I would ask God Himself to make him a man of God like my father." "And do you believe He could do it?" The Breton looked very doubtful. "I'm sure of it!" "Yes, but you don't know how bad I am." "Yes, I know," said Paula; "everybody in town knows you're a bad man, but you're no worse than the bandit who was crucified with the Lord Jesus; and yet Christ saved him; didn't He?" "That's more or less what I am--a bandit, I suppose. I remember that story. When I was a little boy my mother told it to me. I never thought at that time that I'd ever become the thing I am today. What would my poor mother do if she could see what had become of me?" "Perhaps she'd pray for you," Paula said simply. "She! Yes, I think she would have prayed for me," he said. "But why talk about my mother! I, who have just come out of prison;--hated, despised, and made a laughingstock by everybody in our neighborhood, even pointed at by the little street-urchins! My children fear me! My poor wife trembles when I appear! Who would ever think of praying for a brute like me?" "I," said Paula with a voice vibrant with emotion. "You? Why you scarcely know me!" "But I do know you, and I've prayed many times for you, Monsieur Breton. Do you think it didn't distress me when they told me you had been put in the prison where people say it's so cold and dark inside, and where many die from the exposure, and what is the greater calamity--die without hope of salvation." "And so, while I was in prison you prayed for me?" "Well, from the time I heard about it," said Paula, "I've prayed for you every night, Monsieur Breton."