Then receiving no reply, I turned to look and he had gone—gone to offer his blanket to the new guest.
“Yes,” I heard him say, “I have some extra covers on my bed you may have.”
"Another falsehood. Sullivan, you should always speak the truth." For the nights were cold and the blankets none too many. And yet since many prayers are lies, why may not some lies be prayers? “Maybe in your dark purgatory, my Irish lad, these little falsehoods of yours will be counted as prayers.”
One afternoon a letter came for my friend—in a young girl’s rather labored writing—he had received many such, and as I gave it to him I smiled a little. To him I had always been an indulgent Father—for a boy and girl will love, even though he or she may be our favorite child.
That night when the day’s labor was over, Sullivan came to me, asking if he could talk to me. It was a strange request, for he never seemed to wish to talk, and I knew that something had moved him deeply.
“You know my name is not Frank Sullivan,” he asked.
“Yes, I know,” I answered.
“But did you know I was married?” he inquired.
“What, a boy like yourself married?” I asked.
"Yes, I have been married over two years and have a little girl a year old. The letters that I have received have been from my wife Josephine. She and I ran away and were married, but on our return her father wouldn’t accept me. He said I was not worthy of his daughter—and no doubt he is right. He is wealthy and I could not support her in the way to which she is accustomed. So I was forced to leave her. But Josephine and I couldn’t forget.