Father O’Sullivan looked at the man lying on the bed. His eyes were closed, and his face almost deathly pale against the red coverlet which was pulled up to his chin.
Father O’Sullivan sat down by the bedside. The man opened his eyes and looked at him.
“Well, Father,” he said, with a faint attempt at a smile.
And then, in spite of the pallor, the thinness, Father O’Sullivan recognized him. He saw in him a man he had known from boyhood, one who had attended his confessional, though for about six years he had entirely lost sight of him.
“Hugh Ellerslie!” exclaimed he.
“You remember me?” said Hugh.
“Of course, of course,” replied Father O’Sullivan, “though it’s six years or thereabouts since I saw you.”
“I know,” said Hugh wearily. “I want to talk to you, Father. They tell me I’m dying.”
“Well, now,” said the old priest compassionately, “and if that’s so, isn’t it a good thing I’m here to help you make your peace, to have you tell me what it is is troubling you?”
For a moment Hugh was silent,