"Better go to sleep,
my son," he said simply, then added curiously, "Has anything
occurred to keep you up?"
Then Laurence spoke: "No, uncle, only--only, I'm happy, that's all."
Father Paul stood irresolute. Then: "It is--?"
"Esther," said Laurence quietly, but he was at the old man's side,
his hand was on the bent old shoulder, his eyes proud and appealing.
Father Paul set the lamp on the table, but, as usual, one hand held
that black book, the great text of his life. His face was paler than
I had ever seen it--graver.
"Tell me of it," he requested.
I leaned far out of my window and watched them both. I listened with
my very heart, for Laurence was telling him of me, of his love, of
the new-found joy of that night.
"You have said nothing of marriage to her?" asked Father Paul.
"Well--no; but she surely understands that--"
"Did you speak of _marriage_?" repeated Father Paul, with a harsh
ring in his voice that was new to me.
"No, uncle, but--"
"Very well, then, very well."
There was a brief silence. Laurence stood staring at the old man as
though he were a stranger; he watched him push a large chair up to
the table, slowly seat himself; then mechanically following his
movements, he dropped on to a lounge.
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