'Not my servant--but you know I can't help you being my parishioner.' 'And as such surely I may plead an humble right to your counsels and reproof.

Yes, you _shall_ lecture me--I'll bear it from none but _you_, and the more you do it, the happier, at least, you make me,' he said.
'Alas, if my censure is pleasant to you, 'tis a certain sign it can do you no good.' 'It _shall_ do me good, and be it never so bitter and so true, it will be pleasant to me too,' he answered, with an honest and very peculiar light in his dark, strange eyes; and after a little pause, 'I'll tell you why, just because I had rather you remembered my faults, than that you did not remember me at all.' 'But, 'tis not my business to make people angry.' 'More likely you should make me sad, or perhaps happy, that is to say, better.

I think you'd like to see your parish improve.' 'So I would--but by means of my example, not my preaching.

No; I leave that to wiser heads--to the rector, for instance'-- and she drew closer to the dear old man, with a quick fond glance of such proud affection, for she thought the sun never shone upon his like, as made Devereux sigh a little unconscious sigh.

The old man did not hear her--he was too absorbed in his talk--he only felt the pressure of his darling's little hand, and returned it, after his wont, with a gentle squeeze of his cassocked arm, while he continued the learned essay he was addressing to young, queer, erudite, simple Dan Loftus, on the descent of the Decie branch of the Desmonds.