“I beg your pardon, father,” he said deferentially.
“I mentioned the fact, for obvious reasons,” said Matthew.
“Quite so,” said Sylvester, and then hesitating and finally blurting it out, as if he were ashamed of it, he added,—
“I know you are a father confessor to every poor devil in trouble.”
The old man looked at his son and his kind eyes grew a little moist. Any tribute of faith and love from Sylvester touched him deeply. But he laughed and said characteristically,—
“There are some people who'll tell you anything, if you 're only soft-headed enough to listen to them.” Then he nodded towards the window, and waved his hand,—
“There is one, anyhow, who doesn't want a confessor.”
It was Ella, standing in the clear March sunshine of the garden, looking in through the French window, and holding up a bunch of fresh-gathered violets. With a word of adieu to his father, Sylvester went out and joined her. She pinned the flowers in his buttonhole and for ten pleasant minutes they walked along the trim-kept paths.
“You were not angry with me last night?” he asked.
She murmured very meekly,—“If I were, I should not be here with you now.”