“I wish you would let him alone, sir—I mean, take no more trouble about him. You see I can’t do as you want me; I wasn’t made to go another man’s way; and so it’s very hard—more than I can bear—to be under so much obligation to you.” “But you mistake me altogether, Thomas. It is for the lad’s own sake that I want to go on reading with him. And you won’t interfere between him and any use I can be of to him. I assure you, to have you go my way instead of your own is the last thing I could wish, though I confess I do wish very much that you would choose the right way for your own way.” He made me no answer, but maintained a sullen silence. “Thomas,” I said at length, “I had thought you were breaking every bond of Satan that withheld you from entering into the kingdom of heaven; but I fear he has strengthened his bands and holds you now as much a captive as ever. So it is not even your own way you are walking in, but his.” “It’s no use your trying to frighten me. I don’t believe in the devil.” “It is God I want you to believe in. And I am not going to dispute with you now about whether there is a devil or not. In a matter of life and death we have no time for settling every disputed point.” “Life or death! What do you mean?” “I mean that whether you believe there is a devil or not, you KNOW there is an evil power in your mind dragging you down. I am not speaking in generals; I mean NOW, and you know as to what I mean it. And if you yield to it, that evil power, whatever may be your theory about it, will drag you down to death. It is a matter of life or death, I repeat, not of theory about the devil.” “Well, I always did say, that if you once give a priest an inch he’ll take an ell; and I am sorry I forgot it for once.” Having said this, he shut up his mouth in a manner that indicated plainly enough he would not open it again for some time. This, more than his speech, irritated me, and with a mere “good morning,” I walked out of the shop. No sooner was I in the open air than I knew that I too, I as well as poor Thomas Weir, was under a spell; knew that I had gone to him before I had recovered sufficiently from the mingled disappointment and mortification of my interview with Miss Oldcastle; that while I spoke to him I was not speaking with a whole heart; that I had been discharging a duty as if I had been discharging a musket; that, although I had spoken the truth, I had spoken it ungraciously and selfishly. I could not bear it. I turned instantly and went back into the shop. “Thomas, my friend,” I said, holding out my hand, “I beg your pardon. I was wrong. I spoke to you as I ought not. I was troubled in my own mind, and that made me lose my temper and be rude to you, who are far more troubled than I am. Forgive me!”