When I was a little boy my mother told it to me. I never thought at that
time that I'd ever become the thing I am today. What would my poor mother
do if she could see what had become of me?"
"Perhaps she'd pray for you," Paula said simply.
"She! Yes, I think she would have prayed for me," he said. "But why talk
about my mother! I, who have just come out of prison;--hated, despised, and
made a laughingstock by everybody in our neighborhood, even pointed at by
the little street-urchins! My children fear me! My poor wife trembles when
I appear! Who would ever think of praying for a brute like me?"
"I," said Paula with a voice vibrant with emotion.
"You? Why you scarcely know me!"
"But I do know you, and I've prayed many times for you, Monsieur Breton. Do
you think it didn't distress me when they told me you had been put in the
prison where people say it's so cold and dark inside, and where many die
from the exposure, and what is the greater calamity--die without hope of
salvation."
"And so, while I was in prison you prayed for me?"
"Well, from the time I heard about it," said Paula, "I've prayed for you
every night, Monsieur Breton."
The poor fellow bowed his head.
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