When she was better, he said, gravely,--
"I want you, Margret. Not at home, child. I want to show you
something."
He turned with her suddenly off the main road into a by-path,
helping her along, watching her stealthily, but going on with his
disjointed, bearish growls. If it stung her from her pain,
vexing her, he did not care.
"I want to show you a bit of hell: outskirt. You're in a fit
state: it'll do you good. I'm minister there. The clergy can't
attend to it just now: they're too busy measuring God's truth by
the States'--Rights doctrine, or the Chicago Platform.
Consequence, religion yields to majorities. Are you able? It's
only a step."
She went on indifferently. The night was breathless and dark.
Black, wet gusts dragged now and then through the skyless fog,
striking her face with a chill. The Doctor quit talking,
hurrying her, watching her anxiously. They came at last to the
railway-track, with long trains of empty freight-cars.
"We are nearly there," he whispered. "It's time you knew your
work, and forgot your weakness. The curse of pampered
generations. `High Norman blood,'--pah!"
There was a broken gap in the fence. He led her through it into
a muddy yard. Inside was one of those taverns you will find in
the suburbs of large cities, haunts of the lowest vice. This one
was a smoky frame, standing on piles over an open space where
hogs were rooting. Half a dozen drunken Irishmen were playing
poker with a pack of greasy cards in an out-house.
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