Even while he prayed; even while his hands were stretched out in agonized supplication towards the feet of that crucifix before which his hardest battles had been fought and won; even while the tears of bitter contrition and miserable self-mistrust were dimming his eyes—there came a soft tap on the glass of the window beside him. He rose to his feet, and wonderingly drew back the dingy curtain. There in the moonlight, before the open window, stood a small white figure—there, with his bare feet on the moon-blanched turf, dressed only in his long white night-shirt, stood his little acolyte, the boy who held his whole future in his small childish hands. “Wilfred, what are you doing here?” he asked in a trembling voice. “I could not sleep, father, for thinking of you, and I saw a light in your room, so I got out through the window and came to see you. Are you angry with me, father?” he asked, his voice faltering as he saw the almost fierce expression in the thin ascetic face. “Why did you come to see me?” The priest hardly dared recognize the situation, and scarcely heard what the boy said. “Because I love you, I love you—oh, so much! but you—you are angry with me—oh, why did I ever come! why did I ever come!—I never thought you would be angry!” and the little fellow sank on the grass and burst into tears. The priest sprang through the open window, and seizing the slim little figure in his arms, he carried him into the room. He drew the curtain, and, sinking into the deep arm-chair, laid the little fair head upon his breast, kissing his curls again and again. “O my darling! my own beautiful darling!” he whispered, “how could I ever be angry with you? You are more to me than all the world. Ah, God! how I love you, my darling! my own sweet darling!” For nearly an hour the boy nestled there in his arms, pressing his soft cheek against his; then the priest told him he must go. For one long last kiss their lips met, and then the small white-clad figure slipped through the window, sped across the little moonlit garden, and vanished through the opposite window. When they met in the vestry next morning, the lad raised his beautiful flower-like face, and the priest, gently putting his arms round him, kissed him tenderly on the lips. “My darling! my darling!” was all he said; but the lad returned his kiss with a smile of wonderful almost heavenly love, in a silence that seemed to whisper something more than words. “I wonder what was the matter with the father this morning?” said one old woman to another, as they were returning from the chapel; “he didn’t seem himself at all; he made more mistakes this morning than Father Thomas made in all the year he was here.” “Seemed as if he had never said a Mass before!” replied her friend, with something of contempt.