"
The priest pulled out an arm-chair covered with horsehair and an
antimacassar.
"Sit down, my child."
Then he sat down himself, opposite her, in his trousers at once tight
and baggy, with his rather large boots cocked one over the other, and
his genial red face smiling at her.
"Now then," he said.
"It's not about myself, father," she began rather hurriedly. "It's
about Laurie Baxter. May I begin at the beginning?"
He nodded. He was not sorry to hear something about this boy, whom he
didn't like at all, but for whom he knew himself at least partly
responsible. The English were bad enough, but English converts were
indescribably trying; and Laurie had been on his mind lately, he
scarcely knew why.
Then Maggie began at the beginning, and told the whole thing, from
Amy's death down to Mr. Morton's letter. He put a question or two to
her during her story, looking at her with pressed lips, and finally
put out his hand for the letter itself.
"Mrs. Baxter doesn't know what I've come about," said the girl. "You
won't give her a hint, will you, father?"
He nodded reassuringly to her, absorbed in the letter, and presently
handed it back, with a large smile.
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