He had seen it before, again
and again, but had never realized its horror as he realized it now
from the depths of his own misery. Was it really true that his
religion could emit such results?
There was a step on the stairs--a very heavy one--and Father Mahon
came in, a large, crimson-faced man, who seemed to fill the room with
a completely unethereal presence, and held out his hand with a certain
gravity. Laurie took it and dropped it.
"Sit down, my dear boy," said the priest, and he impelled him gently
to a horsehair-covered arm-chair.
Laurie stiffened.
"Thank you, father; but I mustn't stay."
He fumbled in his pocket, and fetched out a little paper-covered
packet.
"Will you say Mass for my intention, please?" And he laid the packet
on the mantelshelf.
The priest took up the coins and slipped them into his waistcoat
pocket.
"Certainly," he said. "I think I know--"
Laurie turned away with a little jerk.
"I must be going," he said. "I only looked in--"
"Mr. Baxter," said the other, "I hope you will allow me to say how
much--"
Laurie drew his breath swiftly, with a hiss as of pain, and glanced at
the priest.
"You understand, then, what my intention is?"
"Why, surely.
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