"Is your father one of my parishioners, Dorothy?" he said, again addressing her.
"Yes, sir, my adopted father."
"Are you an orphan?"
"My mother is dead. My father, I never knew; I don't know whether he be living or dead. But please, sir, don't ask me anything about it. Mrs. Martin can tell you my strange history. I did not mind hearing about it once, but now it gives me great pain."
"I should be sorry to distress you, Dorothy," he said, coming over to where she was standing, her hand resting on the piano.
"I believe you, Mr. Fitzmorris, but I cannot be your friend, if you speak ill of Lord Wilton."
"I will only speak of him as he deserves. If he is a regenerated man, I shall rejoice to give him the right hand of fellowship. And now, good morning, Dorothy, I have much to do before the duties of the Sabbath. I shall see you again shortly."
Mr. Fitzmorris left the room, and Dorothy returned to the farm.
On her way thither, she pondered much on what had passed between her and Mr. Fitzmorris. His conversation had filled her mind with a thousand painful doubts and fears. Could there really be any impropriety in her intimacy with Lord Wilton? and was it possible that he could be such a person as Mr. Fitzmorris described? Then she recalled the Earl's own confession. The fearful manner in which he had accused himself of crimes committed in his youth against some one, whom he had loved and injured, and robbed of her fair name. But he had not spoken of her as his wife, but as one whom he had been ashamed to own, and had deserted and left to perish.