"Does he never read to you?"
"Of course he reads and sings to me every Sunday; but he always seems in a hurry, except now and then, when he overdoes it."
"Does he never come and talk with you?"
"He often lets so long a time pass without saying a word, that I cannot help crying when I sit alone. Then, I suppose, he sees this, for he begins to talk with me, but it is always about trifles, never about anything serious."
The priest was walking up and down; now he stopped and asked, "Why do you not speak with him about it?"
It was some time before she made any reply to this; she sighed several times, she looked first downward, then on either side,—she folded the handkerchief she carried.
"I came here to-day to have a talk with father about something that lies heavily on my heart."
"Speak freely, it will lighten the burden."
"I know that; for I have now dragged it along alone these many years, and it grows heavier each year."
"What is it, my good woman?"