His dress was sombre and appertained to a
religious order. His eye denoted an acquaintance with the
perspective.
"Father Rogan," said Norah, "this is _he_."
"The two of ye," said Father Rogan, "want to get married?"
They did not deny it. He married them. The ceremony was quickly
done. One who could have witnessed it, and felt its scope, might have
trembled at the terrible inadequacy of it to rise to the dignity of
its endless chain of results.
Afterward the priest spake briefly, as if by rote, of certain other
civil and legal addenda that either might or should, at a later time,
cap the ceremony. Lorison tendered a fee, which was declined, and
before the door closed after the departing couple Father Rogan's book
popped open again where his finger marked it.
In the dark hall Norah whirled and clung to her companion, tearful.
"Will you never, never be sorry?"
At last she was reassured.
At the first light they reached upon the street, she asked the time,
just as she had each night. Lorison looked at his watch. Half-past
eight.
Lorison thought it was from habit that she guided their steps toward
the corner where they always parted. But, arrived there, she
hesitated, and then released his arm. A drug store stood on the
corner; its bright, soft light shone upon them.
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