"Stay a while," he said, "I have not had a talk with you for some
time."
Rene looked a trifle uneasy.
"You will not drink any to-night, my son," Father Beret added.
"You must not; do you hear?"
The young man's eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullen
expression; evidently he was not pleased and felt rebellious; but
it was hard for him to resist Father Beret, whom he loved, as did
every soul in the post. The priest's voice was sweet and gentle,
yet positive to a degree. Rene did not say a word.
"Promise me that you will not taste liquor this night," Father
Beret went on, grasping the young man's arm more firmly; "promise
me, my son, promise me."
Still Rene was silent. The men did not look at each other, but
gazed away across the country beyond the Wabash to where a glory
from the western sun flamed on the upper rim of a great cloud
fragment creeping along the horizon. Warm as the day had been, a
delicious coolness now began to temper the air; for the wind had
shifted into the northwest. A meadowlark sang dreamingly in the
wild grass of the low lands hard by, over which two or three
prairie hawks hovered with wings that beat rapidly.
"Eh bien, I must go," said Rene presently, getting to his feet
nimbly and evading Father Beret's hand which would have held him.
"Not to the river house, my son?" said the priest appealingly.
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