"And I feel that I owe you an apology."
"Me? How so?" asked the old man.
"The truth is," replied Chester, coloring very red, and speaking as if it was a great effort and a relief to be candid, "I haven't been easy in my conscience since the unlucky—or rather lucky—day I met you outside the stage-coach."
"Oh, never speak of it. It is all forgotten," exclaimed Father Brighthopes.
"Not with me, Father. I have been heartily ashamed of my conduct. It was kind in you to rebuke me for swearing, and I should have taken it so. What you said appealed to my reason and to my feelings. But I was too proud to acknowledge the justice of your reproof; and, as I did not know you, I thought to carry out my assumed recklessness by a dash of insolence."
"I forgave it at the moment, my son. I understood it all."
"I hope you will not think I have been in the habit of using profane language," said Chester. "It is my misfortune to be easily influenced by the kind of society I am in. You remember, I was conversing with a wild fellow, who was by no means sparing of oaths. I have lived in the atmosphere of too many such; and, somehow, I have learned to imitate their habits unconsciously."
"Our only armor against such influences is firm principle," answered the old man, encouragingly. "No warm-blooded young person, entering the world, is safe without this."
"It must be so, Father. But why is it that the sight of vice does not always strike us with the same disgust or horror as the mere contemplation of it?"
"We can accustom our palate to any description of vile drugs, by persisting in their use, I suppose."