no patience at all with such things as scruples,
_nuances_, and shades of tone and meaning; but if you put a plain
question to him plainly, he gave you a plain answer, if he knew it; if
not, he looked it up then and there; and that is always a relief in
this intricate world. Maggie therefore did not bother him much; she
went to him only on plain issues; and he respected and liked her
accordingly.

"Good morning, my child," he said in his loud, breezy voice, as he
came in to find her in his hideous little sitting-room. "I hope you
don't mind the smell of tobacco-smoke."

The room indeed reeked; he had started a cigar, according to rule, as
the clock struck twelve, and had left it just now upon a stump outside
when his housekeeper had come to announce a visitor.

"Not in the least, thanks, father.... May I sit down? It's rather a
long business, I'm afraid."

The priest pulled out an arm-chair covered with horsehair and an
antimacassar.

"Sit down, my child."

Then he sat down himself, opposite her, in his trousers at once tight
and baggy, with his rather large boots cocked one over the other, and
his genial red face smiling at her.

"Now then," he said.

"It's not about myself, father," she began rather hurriedly. "It's
about Laurie Baxter. May I begin at the beginning?"

He nodded. He was not sorry to hear something about this boy, whom he
didn't like at all, but for whom he knew himself at least partly
responsible. The English were bad enough, but English converts were
indescribably trying; and Laurie had been on his mind lately, he
scarcely knew why.

Then Maggie began at the beginning, and told the whole thing, from
Amy's death down to Mr. Morton's letter. He put a question or two to
her during her story, looking at her with pressed lips, and finally
put out his hand for the letter itself.

"Mrs. Baxter doesn't know what I've come about," said the girl. "You
won't give her a hint, will you, father?"

He nodded reassuringly to her, absorbed in the letter, and presently
handed it back, with a large smile.

"He seems a sensible fellow," he said.

"Ah! that's what I wanted to ask you, father. I don't know anything at
all about spiritualism. Is it--is it really all nonsense? Is there
nothing in it at all?"

He laughed aloud.

"I don't think you need be afraid," he said. "Of course we know that
souls don't come back like that. They're somewhere else."

"Then it's all fraud?"

"It's practically all