I liked the dear, simple old priest to whom I made my first confession, and at times thought I would like someday to be a priest myself. Between my admiration for old Thomas, the coachman, with his stormy stories of the war, and my love for the quiet old priest, my mind was always pulling me this way and that⁠—whether I should become a priest, or a soldier like Tommy, limping around with his short leg and his rheumatism.

One day when I was waiting for the mail I heard a nice old lady ask the postmaster whose boy I was.

He said, “That’s one of the boys from the convent. You can tell them a block away. They are all perfect little gentlemen. They say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you.’ I do not know how the Sisters do it, but they can surely bring boys up. I wish I could do it with mine.”