It was the priest, Merlier.

In the past months Gordon had been conscious of
an increasing concord with the silent clerical. He
vaguely felt in the other's isolation the wreckage
of an old catastrophe, a loneliness not unlike his,
Gordon Makimmon's, who had killed his wife and
their child.

"The Nickles," the priest pronounced, sudden
and harsh, "are worthless, woman and man. They
would be bad if they were better; as it is they are
only a drunken charge on charity and the church.
They have been stewed in whiskey now for a month.
They make nothing amongst their weeds. -- Is it
possible they got a sum from you?"

"Six weeks back," Gordon replied briefly; "two
hundred dollars to put a floor on the bare earth and
stop a leaking roof."

"Lies," Merlier commented. "When any one
in my church is deserving I will tell you myself. I
think of an old woman now, but ten dollars would
be a fortune." Silence fell upon them. Then:

"Charity is commanded," he proceeded, "but out
of the hands of authority it is a difficult and treacherous
virtue. The people are without comprehension,"
he made a gesture of contempt.

"With age," the deliberate voice went on, "the
soul grows restless and moves in strange directions,
struggling to throw off the burden of flesh. But I

[[312]]

p311 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p312w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p313

v?