The preacher's comment was a groan.
"Tom, my boy, if any one had told me a year ago that a short twelvemonth would make you, not only an apostate to the faith, but a shameless liar as well—"
Tom started as if he had been struck with a whip.
"Hold on, Uncle Silas," he broke in hardily. "That's mighty near a fighting word, even between blood kin. When have you ever caught me in a lie?"
"Now!" thundered the accusing voice; "this moment! You have been giving me to understand that your sinful rebellion at Beersheba was the worst that could be charged against you. Answer me: isn't that what you want me to believe?"
"I don't care whether you believe it or not. It's so."
"It is not so. Here, at your own home, when your mother had just been spared to you by the mercies of the God whose commandments you set at naught, you have been wallowing in sin—in crime!"
Tom locked his clasped fingers fast around his knees and would not open the flood-gates of passion.
"If I can sit here and take that from you, it's because it isn't so," he replied soberly.
Silas Crafts rose, stern and pitiless.