There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. When I have traversed the streets a houseless wanderer, driven with curses from every door where I have solicited alms, and with blows from every gateway where I have sought shelter,—when I have crept into some deserted building, and stretched my wearied limbs upon a bulk, in the vain hope of repose,—or, worse than all, when, frenzied with want, I have yielded to horrible temptation, and earned a meal in the only way I could earn one,—when I have felt, at times like these, my heart sink within me, I have drank of this drink, and have at once forgotten my cares, my poverty, my guilt. Let us proceed with our tale. But Gosse began to drag her towards the door. She hesitated, and for a moment thought of omitting her second verse altogether. “The surgeon’s knife is surely a kindly weapon,” she declared. Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor. He propped himself up on one arm, kissing her passionately.
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