They were standing face to face now upon the hearthrug. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. Neither did his interest,—which was by no means inconsiderable,—nor his general popularity, procure him the preferment he desired. If he laid his own suspicions boldly before the girl, and in the end the boy came clean, he would always be haunted by the witless cruelty of the act. “There is my aunt,” she said. I don’t want you to talk to me now. Clergymen were human. She cried and sobbed in fits.
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