At this retort the audience giggled. They admired the audacity of Tim, although most of them were model children. For, as his distracted mother often said, in excuse of her own leniency, "Tim has such a way with him. You couldn't help but smile, even when he is at his wickedest."
"I saw you stealing the apples," cried Molly, disregarding his rejoinder. "Do you know that it's a big sin to steal the priest's apples? It's"—she hesitated for a moment, anxious to leave a lasting impression—"it's sacrilege."
The corners of Tim's mouth dropped, and his face became grave.
"Is it, miss?" he asked soberly.
"Now, listen to me, Tim, and I will teach you logic. Of course you know what logic is?"
"Is it a pain here?" asked Tim, pointing to the region below his waistcoat, the twinkle returning to his eye. Molly sternly repressed a tendency to giggle.
"No, logic is the art of reasoning," she replied, gravely. "Is that the presbytery, Tim?"
"What else?" asked Tim, scornfully.
"And to whom does it belong?"
"To the Father, to be sure."