"You've been courting my daughter--don't try to crawl out of it, now
you know what I am. I'll not stand in the way, I tell you. Why, the
devil--"
He stopped short, his restless eyes roving over the young man's face
and figure:
"Oh, I see!" he sneered. "I begin to understand: 'the sanctity of the
cloth'--'my sacred calling'-- Yes, yes! And perhaps my price seems a
bit high: ten thousand dollars--"
Elliot sprang from his chair and stood over the cringing figure of
the ex-convict.
"I could strike you," he said in a smothered voice; "but you are an
old man and--not responsible. You don't understand what you've said,
perhaps; and I'll not try to make you see it as I do."
"I supposed you were fond of my girl," mumbled Bolton. "I heard you
tell her--"
But the look in the younger man's eyes stopped him. His hand sought
his heart in an uncertain gesture.
"Have you any brandy?" he asked feebly. "I--I'm not well.... No
matter; I'll go over to the tavern. I'll have them take me home.
Tired, after all this; don't feel like walking."
Chapter XX
The minister from the doorstep of the parsonage watched the stooped
figure as it shambled down the street. The rain was still falling in
torrents. The thought crossed his mind that the old man might not be
able to compass the two miles or more of country road. Then he got
into his raincoat and followed.
"My umbrella isn't of the best," he said, as he overtook the toiling
figure; "but I should have offered it.
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