art, and we spoke--"

"Of the friends whom one knows for friends the first moment, and whom
one seems to recognise even though one has never seen them before,"
interrupted Feversham. "Indeed I remember."

"And whom one never loses whether absent or dead," continued Ethne. "I
said that one could always be sure of such friends, and you answered--"

"I answered that one could make mistakes," again Feversham interrupted.

"Yes, and I disagreed. I said that one might seem to make mistakes, and
perhaps think so for a long while, but that in the end one would be
proved not to have made them. I have often thought of those words. I
remembered them very clearly when Captain Willoughby brought to me the
first feather, and with a great deal of remorse. I remember them again
very clearly to-day, although I have no room in my thoughts for remorse.
I was right, you see, and I should have clung firmly to my faith. But I
did not." Her voice shook a little, and pleaded as she went on: "I was
young. I knew very little. I was unaware how little. I judged hastily;
but to-day I understand."

She opened her hand and gazed for a while at the white feathers. Then
she turned and went inside the church. Feversham followed her.

CHAPTER XXXII

IN THE CHURCH AT GLENALLA

Ethne sat down in the corner of a pew next to the aisle, and Feversham
took his stand beside her. It was very quiet and peaceful within that
tiny church. The afternoon sun shone through the upper windows and made
a golden haze about the roof. The natural murmurs of the summer floated
pleasantly through the open door.

"I am glad that you remembered our drive and what we said," she
continued. "It is rather important to me that you should remember.
Because, although I have got you back, I am going to send you away from
me again. You will be one of the absent friends whom I shall not lose
because you are absent."

She spoke slowly, looking straight in front of her without faltering. It
was a difficult speech for her to deliver, but she had thought over it
night and day during this last fortnight, and the words were ready to
her lips. At the first sight of Harry Feversham, recovered to her after
so many years, so much suspense, so much suffering, it had seemed to her
that she never would be able to speak them, however necessary it was
that they should be spoken. But as they stood over against one another
she had forced herself to remember that necessity until she act