"What did it say?" I asked, with eagerness.
"I don't remember very clearly: but he said that this woman who died of smallpox, the child's mother, you know, had opened all her heart to him before she died. And he says there never was a gentler or purer-hearted woman—the old story, of love, and trust, and anguish. Then he said he promised her to care for her boy; and he said something about his ordination vows, said he would try to be true to them, and that this would help him to banish revenge and hatred from his heart."
"His ordination vows?" I exclaimed, "what do you suppose he means? Surely he is not trifling with all that unhappy occurrence?"
"I don't think so. There was no trifling tone about his letter. I asked Margaret about that very thing, but she wouldn't tell me, only she said there was no elder in St. Cuthbert's more ordained to God's service than Angus is."
"Did she say anything about their love affairs?" said I, after a man's poor bungling fashion.
"Not a word—but she wouldn't let me see the letter," this with a little womanly sigh: for women, like children, have griefs that appear trifling to grown men, but are very real to them.
After a pause my wife ventured: "Don't you think that perhaps we are just a little unrelenting about Margaret and Angus?"
"What?" I said.
"Oh, I don't mean that she should marry him, of course, but it does seem hard, father—and it really wasn't his fault—and perhaps we will regret it some day."
"But, my dear, you know it is impossible—think of the humiliation of it, the shame of it, I might say."
