"Mary Ellen," he ventured, "you might as well say 'another mistake.' I
did make one. You know it, and I know it."
She looked at him with a frank affection, entirely maternal. "Yes,
William," she said, with the same gentle firmness in her voice, "we've
passed so far beyond those things that we can speak out and feel no
shame. You did make a mistake. I don't know as 'twould be called so to
break with me, but it was to marry where you did. You never cared about
her. You were good to her. You always would be, William; but 'twas a
shame to put her there."
The parson had locked his hands upon his knees. He looked at them, and
sad lines of recollection deepened in his face.
"I was desperate," he said at length, in a low tone. "I had lost you.
Some men take to drink, but that never tempted me. Besides, I was a
minister. I was just ordained. Mary Ellen, do you remember that day?"
"Yes," she answered softly, "I remember." She had leaned back in her
chair, and her eyes were fixed upon vacancy with the suffused look of
tears forbidden to fall.
"You wore a white dress," went on the parson, "and a bunch of Provence
roses. It was June. Your sister always thought you dressed too gay, but
you said to her, 'I guess I can wear what I want, to, to-day of all
times.
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