In a town like that which formed Father Xavier's parish, the pastor is
indeed the father of his flock. Every man, woman and child is known to
him personally, and he takes a direct interest in each one's welfare. As
Father Xavier sat that Christmas eve and listened to the confessions of
his people, his heart grew sad and hope gradually died away as he waited
in vain for the voice of one whom he was striving to bring back to God
and to his duty.
The crowd of penitents melted away one by one, the few last stragglers
had been heard, and still the priest waited in his confessional. The boy
might possibly come even yet, his boy whom he had loved with a special
affection ever since he was a tiny little chap first learning his
prayers in the baby class of the Sunday-school. Why was it he had not
been able to hold the boy? Why had he not been able to prevent his
wandering away with bad companions, this absolute neglect of all
religious duties on the part of his boy? Why could he not succeed in
bringing him back again even though the boy had wandered far afield?
Father Xavier had hoped much from this Christmas eve, for Tim had
promised faithfully to make his confession and to start anew in the path
from which his feet had strayed. Tim had promised it as his Christmas
gift to the Father. Yes, Tim had promised, but Tim had broken his
promise.
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