With a sigh of utter weariness, weariness of body, weariness of mind,
Father Xavier rose and left the confessional. He glanced over the
church; it was empty. He glanced towards the altar and his eyes rested
on the sanctuary lamp which appeared to be burning with unwonted
brightness.
The hour was late, much later than he was accustomed to keep the church
open, still he lingered, unwilling to give up a last forlorn hope that
his boy might yet keep his promise. With eyes fixed on the Tabernacle
door, the priest knelt and commenced to recite the rosary, pleading,
pleading for his boy. The joyful mysteries were finished and no one
came; the sorrowful, still no one; finally, the glorious mysteries, and
still the priest was alone.
With one last appeal for the welfare of that wandering soul, Father
Xavier rose from his knees and walked to the door of the church to close
it for the night. He passed out on the steps and stood for a moment
listening to a band of roisterers that were coming up the street
disturbing the peaceful quiet of the night with their noisy songs and
laughter. Where was his boy at that moment? He might possibly be with
this very band of half-drunken revellers who were even now passing by
and would soon be swallowed up in the darkness of the street. If not
with this band, he was probably wandering somewhere with another just
like it.
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