'" They were outside by this time, and Miss Carmichael,
lifting a warning finger, said: "Mr. Coristine, I am a school teacher,
and am going to take you in hand as a naughty boy; you know that is not
for Sunday, don't you now?"
"If it was only another name that begins with the same letter," replied
the incorrigible Irishman, "I'd say the line would be good for any day
of the week in fine weather; but I'm more than willing to go to school
again."
"Sometimes," said the schoolteacher quietly, "sometimes the word
'garden' makes me sad. Papa had a great deal of trouble. He lost all his
children but me, and almost all his property, and he had quarrelled with
his relations in Scotland, or they had quarrelled with him; so that he
was, in spite of his public life, a lonely, afflicted man. When he was
dying, he repeated part of a hymn, and the refrain was 'The Garden of
Gethsemane.'"
"Ah, Miss Carmichael, dear, forgive me, the stupid, blundering idiot
that I am, to go and vex your tender heart with my silly nonsense. I'm
ashamed, and could cry to think of it."
"I will forgive you, Mr.
Pages:
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287