There was irony in Parson Whymper's tone; and yet the young man felt
that he was not the subject of its cynicism. Was it possible that this
hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-headed divine was scornful of himself,
and of his own degraded position? Yorke did not credit him with any such
fine feeling. He had read of Swift at Temple's, and could understand the
great Dean's bitterness against a shallow master and his insolent
guests, but that a man should become despicable to himself, was
unintelligible to him.

"Of course," continued the chaplain, smiling at his evident
bewilderment, "I could have been as smooth-spoken as you please, my
young friend; but I had estimated your good sense too highly to endeavor
to conciliate you by such vapid arts."

"I thank you," said Yorke, thoughtfully. "I hope you were right there; I
am sure at least that from your mouth I could hear home truths, which
from another's would be very unpalatable. You are good enough to speak
as though you would wish us to be friends. I am going to ask you,
therefore, to do me a favor."

"I will do any thing that lies in my power; but do not, for your own
sake, press me to influence your father----"

"No, no; it is not that," broke in the other, hastily. "It lies with
yourself to grant my request. I wish to hear from you the true story of
Carew's marriage with my mother."

"The _true story_?" echoed Parson Whymper. "Nay; I can not vouch for
being possessed of that. I have only heard it from your grandmother: the
counsel for the prosecution is scarcely a reliable authority for the