United States or British Indian Ocean Territory ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"He died," he told her, "but in the faith at the end." "In what faith?" Molly asked curiously. She was a child in so many things. "The Church," he told her, with reproof in his tone. The click of Mr. Jonas's incisors upon incisors chopped the air. But Molly moved a little nearer the minister. "Yes," she agreed slowly, unwillingly almost; "they all do. Father Bonot used to say it over and over.
He's there, Father Bonot is, they told me in Washington. He's an old, old man. Let's go back home there." "Why, yes," said the girl, "if you want, we'll go." "You were a little baby at Cannes Brulée yes," animatedly, "that's what we'll do. We'll go home to Father Bonot, Malise." At the touch of Mr. Jonas the minister started. His face was grey. Then he got up and followed the other.
And before the slower comprehension of the dazed Harriet had grasped the meaning of the ensuing preparations the draping of the pier-table, the lighting of waxen candles a sudden silence had fallen; the gay abandon of these mercurial Southerners had given place to reverent awe, even to tears, as the new-born representative of the Puritan Blairs was brought in, in robes like cascades of lace, while of all that followed, the one thing seeming to reach the comprehension of Harriet was the chanting monotone of Father Bonot saying above the child, "Mary Alexina "
I used to run and hide behind his skirts, too, when I was afraid my mother was going to whip me." They went in. Half way up the stairs Molly paused. "You Blairs, you're all like him not like Father Bonot." "Like who?" asked Alexina. "Like Mr. Henderson. You Blairs and Mr. Henderson would have pulled aside your skirts so my mother could have caught me and whipped me."
"Baby is four weeks old," Molly was declaring, "and here is Father Bonot from service at Cannes Brulée and so with his vestments. I'm here and Harriet's here, and mamma's here, and everybody else is a cousin or something. I'm sure I don't know when I can get to church. P'tite shall be baptized here, now."
The sky was blue, the air breathed with life and glow and sparkle. There was a taste almost of sea about it. On the prim young orange trees about the new houses across the street the fruit hung golden. "He used to reach them for me Father Bonot did," said Molly, slowly, "before I was tall enough. They're sweeter Louisiana oranges are.
I'm better, really, much better, only while he was talking about, about things it's a dreadful religion his; I'd rather be without any, like Jean, than have one like his I remembered how Father Bonot used to pull the oranges for me I couldn't reach. Here's Malise come back. Malise, let's not go to The Bay after all; I'm tired; let's go to Cannes Brulée.
Word Of The Day