'Alas, if my censure is pleasant to you, 'tis a certain sign it can do
you no good.'
'It _shall_ do me good, and be it never so bitter and so true, it will
be pleasant to me too,' he answered, with an honest and very peculiar
light in his dark, strange eyes; and after a little pause, 'I'll tell
you why, just because I had rather you remembered my faults, than that
you did not remember me at all.'
'But, 'tis not my business to make people angry.'
'More likely you should make me sad, or perhaps happy, that is to say,
better. I think you'd like to see your parish improve.'
'So I would--but by means of my example, not my preaching. No; I leave
that to wiser heads--to the rector, for instance'--and she drew closer
to the dear old man, with a quick fond glance of such proud affection,
for she thought the sun never shone upon his like, as made Devereux sigh
a little unconscious sigh. The old man did not hear her--he was too
absorbed in his talk--he only felt the pressure of his darling's little
hand, and returned it, after his wont, with a gentle squeeze of his
cassocked arm, while he continued the learned essay he was addressing to
young, queer, erudite, simple Dan Loftus, on the descent of the Decie
branch of the Desmonds.
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