“Sit down, my dear boy,” said the priest, and he impelled him gently to a horsehair-covered armchair.
Laurie stiffened.
“Thank you, father; but I mustn’t stay.”
He fumbled in his pocket, and fetched out a little paper-covered packet.
“Will you say Mass for my intention, please?” And he laid the packet on the mantelshelf.
The priest took up the coins and slipped them into his waistcoat pocket.
“Certainly,” he said. “I think I know—”
Laurie turned away with a little jerk.
“I must be going,” he said. “I only looked in—”
“ Mr. Baxter,” said the other, “I hope you will allow me to say how much—”
Laurie drew his breath swiftly, with a hiss as of pain, and glanced at the priest.
“You understand, then, what my intention is?”
“Why, surely. It is for her soul, is it not?”
“I suppose so,” said the boy, and went out.