To every question she nodded.

“Oh, mother, I will be good,” he promised of his own accord.  “And can I take my grenadiers?”

“You can take everything you have, darling.”

“Will Dora come?” He did not inquire about his father.

“No.”

“Just you and me?”

She nodded, and Mark flung his arms round her neck to press upon her lips a long fragrant kiss, such a kiss as only a child can give.

On Sunday morning, the last Sunday morning he would worship in the little tin mission church, the last Sunday morning indeed that any of the children of Lima Street would worship there, Mark sat close beside his mother at the children’s Mass.  His father looking as he always looked, took off his chasuble, and in his alb walked up and down the aisle preaching his short sermon interspersed with questions.

“What is this Sunday called?”

There was a silence until a well-informed little girl breathed through her nose that it was called Passion Sunday.

“Quite right.  And next Sunday?”

“Palm Sunday,” all the children shouted with alacrity, for they looked forward to it almost more than to any Sunday in the year.

“Next Sunday, dear children, I had hoped to give you the blessed palms in our beautiful new church, but God has willed otherwise, and another priest will come in my place.  I hope you will listen to him as attentively as you have listened to me, and I hope you will try to encourage him by your behaviour both in and out of the church, by your punctuality and regular attendance at Mass, and by your example to other children who have not had the advantage of learning all about our glorious Catholic faith.  I shall think about you all when I am gone and I shall never cease to ask our Blessed Lord Jesus Christ to guard you and keep you safe for Him.  And I want you to pray to Our Blessed Lady and to our great patron Saint Wilfred that they will intercede for you and me.  Will you all do this?”

There was a unanimous and sibilant “Yes, father,” from the assembled children, and then one little girl after being prodded by her companions on either side of her spoke up and asked the Missioner why he was going.

“Ah, that is a very difficult question to answer; but I will try to explain it to you by a parable.  What is a parable?”

“Something that isn’t true,” sang out a too ready boy from the back of the church.

“No, no, Arthur Williams.  Surely some other boy or girl can correct Arthur Williams?  How many times have we had that word explained to us!  A parable is a story with a hidden meaning.  Now please, every boy and girl, repeat that answer after me.  A parable is a story with a hidden meaning.”

And all the children baa’d in unison: 

“A parable is a story with a hidden meaning.”