There was an awkward silence.
She had touched Rene's vulnerable spot; he was nothing if not a
devout Catholic, and his conscience rooted itself in what good
Father Beret had taught him.
The church, no matter by what name it goes, Catholic or
Protestant, has a saving hold on the deepest inner being of its
adherents. No grip is so hard to shake off as that of early
religious convictions. The still, small voice coming down from the
times "When shepherds watched their flocks by night," in old
Judea, passes through the priest, the minister, the preacher; it
echoes in cathedral, church, open-air meeting; it gently and
mysteriously imparts to human life the distinctive quality which
is the exponent of Christian civilization. Upon the receptive
nature of children it makes an impress that forever afterward
exhales a fragrance and irradiates a glory for the saving of the
nations.
Father Beret was the humble, self-effacing, never-tiring agent of
good in his community. He preached in a tender sing-song voice the
sweet monotonies of his creed and the sublime truths of Christ's
code. He was indeed the spiritual father of his people. No wonder
Rene's scowling expression changed to one of abject self-concern
when the priest's name was suddenly connected with his mood. The
confessional loomed up before the eyes of his conscience, and his
knees smote together, spiritually if not physically.
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