perplexity at
the priest.

"Why am I doin' this," said he, half repentant of the act, "and me can't
afford it? You must give me your bill, sir, at three months, and I'll
charge you interest besides."

"I'll give you my bill, certainly," replied the priest, "and you may
charge interest too; but be moderate."

Corbet then went upstairs, much at that pace which characterizes the
progress of a felon from the press-room to the gallows; here he remained
for some time--reckoning the money--paused on the stairhead--and again
the slow, heavy, lingering step was heard descending, and, as nearly as
one could judge, with as much reluctance as that with which it went
up. He then sat down and looked steadily, but with a good deal of
abstraction, at the priest, after having first placed the money on his
own side of the table.

"Have you a blank bill?" asked the priest.

"Eh?"

"Have you got a blank bill? or, sure we can send out for one."

"For what?"

"For a blank bill."

"A blank bill--yes--oh, ay--fifty guineas!--why, that's half a hundre'.
God protect me! what am I about? Well, well; there--there--there; now
put it in your pocket;" and as he spoke he shoved it over hastily to the
priest, as if he feared his good resolution might fail him at last.

"But about the bill, man alive?"

"Hang the bill--deuce take all the bills that ever were drawn! I'm the
greatest ould fool that ever wore a head--to go to allow myself to
be made a--a--. Take your money away out of this, I bid you--your
money--no, but my money. I suppose I may bid farewell to it--for so long
as any one tells you a story of distress, and makes a poor mouth to you,
so long you'll get yourself into a scrape on their account."

The priest had already put the money in his pocket, but he instantly
took it out, and placed it once more on Corbet's side of the table.

"There," said he, "keep it. I will receive no money that is lent in such
a churlish and unchristian spirit. And I tell you now, moreover, that if
I do accept it, it must be on the condition of your listening to what
I feel it my duty to say to you. You, Anthony Corbet, have committed
a black and deadly crime against the bereaved widow, against society,
against the will of a merciful and--take care that you don't find him,
too--a just God. It is quite useless for you to deny it; I have spoken
the truth, and you know it. Why will you not enable that heart-broken
and kind lady--whose whole life is one