"I'm very sorry indeed," said she, as the priest still stared in silence at her, "that I was such a trouble to you, after all your—your kindness; but the fact is, I was so wretchedly fatigued that I was scarcely responsible for my actions. It was too selfish in me; but now I mean to make amends, and help you in every possible way. Would you like me to do anything? Sha'n't I get breakfast?"
She spoke these words with a smile, in which, however, there was not a little sadness. There was nothing in the words themselves beyond that painful consideration for others and forgetfulness of self which the priest had observed in her the night before; but the voice was a wonderful one—a round, full contralto, yet soft and low, with a certain mysteriously tremulous undertone that fell with a thrill upon his ear.
The priest started up.
"Breakfast!" said he, with a short laugh. "That is the very thing I was thinking of myself. I consider that an all-important subject."
"It is certainly a serious matter," said she.
"And you propose to get it for me?"
"Yes," said she, with a faint smile, "if I can."
"I really wish you would," continued the priest, "for it would save me from a great responsibility; for if you don't get it for me, hang me if I know where I can get any for myself."
"What do you mean?" said she. "Have we nothing to eat?"
"Well, not so bad as that. I have a bit of a sandwich, I believe, and you may have it."