His hearer lifted his head, better pleased, but not without some betrayal of the distrust which a lower nature feels toward the condescensions of a higher. The preacher went on:—
“Would you try to believe what I have to add to that?”
“Yes, I’d try,” replied the Irishman, looking facetiously from the youth to Ristofalo. But this time the Italian was grave, and turned his glance expectantly upon the minister, who presently replied:—
“Well, neither my church nor the community has sent me here at all.”
The Irishman broke into a laugh.
“Did God send ye?” He looked again to his comrades, with an expanded grin. The youth giggled. The clergyman met the attack with serenity, waited a moment and then responded:—
“Well, in one sense, I don’t mind saying—yes.”
“Well,” said the Irishman, still full of mirth, and swinging his legs with fresh vigor, “he’d aht to ’a’ sint ye to the ligislatur.”
“I’m in hopes he will,” said the little rector; “but”—checking the Irishman’s renewed laughter—“tell me why should other men’s injustice in here stop me from preaching God’s mercy?”
“Because it’s pairt your injustice! Ye do come from yer cherch, an’ ye do come from the community, an’ ye can’t deny ud, an’ ye’d ahtn’t to be comin’ in here with yer sweet tahk and yer eyes tight shut to the crimes that’s bein’ committed ag’in uz for want of an outcry against ’em by you preachers an’ prayers an’ thract-disthributors.” The speaker ceased and nodded fiercely. Then a new thought occurred to him, and he began again abruptly:—