"I hope you will, Moredock," said the curate, taking out the cigar-case he had started at North's recommendation, and carefully selecting a cigar before replacing it; "and I hope you will bitterly repent. If you had come to me and asked me I would have given you a bottle of wine, but for a trusted servant of the church to take advantage of his position and steal--" "On'y borri'd it, sir." "I say steal, Moredock. It was a wicked theft," said Salis sternly. "The wine kept here for sacramental purposes--" "But it was only in the cupboard." "It was a wicked theft, sir." "And it's poor sweet stuff; no more like the drop o' port Squire Candlish give me than treacle and water's like gin." "You're a scoundrelly old reprobate, Moredock." "No, I arn't, parson. I'm a good old sarvant o' the church. Here have I been ill, as doctor 'll tell you, and I was took bad in the church o' Saturday, and you'd ha' done the same, and took a drop o' the wine." "And you've been taken bad Saturday after Saturday for months past, eh, sir?" said the curate sternly. "Been out of order for a long bit, sir," grumbled Moredock, shuffling from foot to foot like a scolded schoolboy. "You old scoundrel!" said the curate, half rising from his seat in the dim vestry, where the surplices and gowns, hung against the old oak panels, seemed like a jury listening to the sexton's impeachment. "You old scoundrel!" he said again, shaking the cigar at him, as if it were a little staff. "It's quite a year since I began missing the wine, and I would not--I could not--suspect you. Why, I should as soon have thought that you would rob the alms box." The old man started, as if his guilty conscience needed no accuser, for he had more than once helped himself to a silver coin from the box within the south door, telling himself that the alms were for the poor, and that he was one of that extremely large fringe of rags upon civilisation. "Well," continued the curate, "I shall to some extent condone this very serious offence, Moredock, for I cannot find it in my heart to prosecute an old man of over ninety; so now go, and I sincerely hope that you will repent." "Ay, I'll repent, parson; but it wouldn't ha' been much loss to ha' been turned out o' being saxton. Nobody dies now, and no one gets married. How's Miss Leo?" "Getting quite strong again." "That's a blessing, sir," grumbled the old man, who in spirit abused the young girl for defrauding him of certain fees. "Health's a blessing, sir." "Yes, Moredock, it is," said the curate, rising. "And I thankye kindly, sir, for looking over the wine, I do. You needn't lock it up. I won't touch it again." "I shall not lock it up, Moredock. My forgiveness is full. I shall trust you as if this had never occurred." "Thankye, parson. That's han'some." "But let me have no more complaints. You must do your duty, as I try to do mine."