'He tinks you'm de sheriff, massa Kirke,' whispered Joe.
I leaned over him. The tears started from my eyes, and fell on his face, as I said:
'You will see her again. She does pity and forgive you.'
He sprang from his seat, and clutched my hands. 'Do you believe it? Joe says so; but Joe is a nigger, and what does a nigger know?' Then, putting his mouth close to my ear, he added: 'They told me she was one. It was false—false as hell; but'—and he threw his arms above his head, and groaned the rest—'but it made me say it. O my God! my God! it made me say it!' His head sank on my shoulder, and again he gave out those piteous moans.
'Have comfort, my boy. I know she loves and pities you, now!'
He looked up. 'Say that again! For the love of God say that again!'
'It is so! As sure as there's another life, it is so!'
He gazed at me fixedly for a few moments—then again commenced pacing the room.
'I wish I could believe it. But you ought to know; you look like a parson. You are a parson, aren't you?'
'Yes; I'm a parson. I know it is so!'