only possible but certain if you believe him capable of
wronging you in thought or act. I know him. And I heard him speak of
you. Any woman might thank heaven for inspiring such words from a man. I
tell you this, I who am a priest: He loves you, and did love you from
the moment he first set eyes upon your face."

"I know," Mary answered simply, and with something of the humbleness of
a child rebuked by high authority. "He said that to me. But--no, I can't
tell you any more."

"That 'but' has told me everything. You sent him away?"

"Yes."

"And I know him well enough to be sure that he has tried to see you
again, to justify himself?"

"He has written. I sent back the letter. And he has wanted to speak,
but I have never let him. I thought it would be wrong."

"Then, my poor child, did you think it less wrong to send him to his
ruin?"

"To his ruin--I?"

"Because you believed him evil, you have roused evil in him, and driven
him to evil. I wish to read you no moral lecture on gambling; but for
him, for a man of his nature, it is a dangerous and powerful drug if
taken to kill pain. I have come to ask you to save him, since I believe
only you can do it."

"I?" she echoed, bitterly. "But I am a gambler! There's gambler's blood
in my veins. I was warned, and wouldn't listen. Now I know there's no
use struggling, so I go on. How can I save any one from a thing I do
myself--a thing I feel I shall keep on doing?"

"Because he loves you, you can save him; and because you love him, too."

She threw her head back, with the gesture of a fawn in flight. "Why
should you say that?"

"I say what I know. I read your heart. And it is right that you should
love him."

"No! For he insulted me."

"You thought so. It was a deceiving thought. Let him prove it false.
Come to my garden to-morrow, and I will bring him to you there. I would
not say this unless I were sure of him. And I tell you again, his
salvation is in you. You have driven him to the drug of forgetfulness.
You owe it to his soul to give him justice. For the rest, let him
plead."

"Madame Veentaire and Meestaire Carleton," announced the shabby
man-servant, blundering abruptly in, as if the door had broken away in
front of him.

The fire died out of the priest's face, but there was no sense of defeat
in his eyes. His calm after excitement was communicated subtly to Mary,
and enabled her to greet her new guests without confusion.

The cure bowed with old-fas