“But the instrument⁠—the instrument! God, who does the work, ordains the instrument. I have myself⁠—I tell it you without parable⁠—been a worldly, dissipated, restless man; and I believe I have found the instrument for my cure in⁠—”

He paused: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. I almost wondered they did not check their songs and whispers to catch the suspended revelation; but they would have had to wait many minutes⁠—so long was the silence protracted. At last I looked up at the tardy speaker: he was looking eagerly at me.

“Little friend,” said he, in quite a changed tone⁠—while his face changed too, losing all its softness and gravity, and becoming harsh and sarcastic⁠—“you have noticed my tender penchant for Miss Ingram: don’t you think if I married her she would regenerate me with a vengeance?”

He got up instantly, went quite to the other end of the walk, and when he came back he was humming a tune.