Mark shook hands with him. "Done. You're a good old chap. I thought you would stay."
Then, turning to Father Murray, Mark spoke more seriously. "Don't you think, Father, that it is almost time to meet the Bishop? He is coming on the next train, you know." He paused and seemed momentarily embarrassed. Then he straightened up and frankly voiced his thought. "Before he comes, will you not step into the church with me? I have a lot of things to straighten out."
The priest stood up and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Do you mean that, my boy?"
"I do," replied Mark. "I told you in Washington that I never passed an open church door that my mind did not conjure up a beckoning hand behind it, and that I knew that some day I should see my mother's face behind the hand. I have seen the face. It was imagination, perhaps--in fact, I know it must have been--but it was mother's face--and I am coming home."
The last words were spoken softly, reverently, and together the priest and the penitent entered the church.