a time. I will hazard one question—were you not under the impression that you loved the lady you married, at the time you did so?”
“Loved her!” cried Lorison, wildly, “never so well as now, though she told me she deceived, and sinned, and stole. Never more than now, when, perhaps, she is laughing at the fool she cajoled and left, with scarcely a word, to return to God only knows what particular line of her former folly.”
Father Rogan answered nothing. During the silence that succeeded he sat, with a quiet expectation beaming in his full, lambent eye.
“If you would listen—” began Lorison. The priest held up his hand.
“As I hoped,” he said. “I thought you would trust me. Wait but a moment.” He brought a long clay pipe, filled, and lighted it.
“Now, my son,” he said.
