go to bed."

"And you went out of the room knowing what the priest was going to
say?" said Rodney, melting into sympathy for the first time. "And then?"

"I waited on the stairs for a little while, long enough to make sure
that he was telling them that I had sat for the statue. I heard the
door open, father came out, they talked on the landing. I fled into my
room and locked the door, and just as I locked the door I heard father
say, 'My daughter! you're insulting my daughter!' You know father is
suffering from stone, and mother said, 'If you don't stop I shall be up
with you all night,' and so she was. All the night I heard father
moaning, and to-day he is so ill the doctor is with him, and he has
been taken to the hospital, and mother says when he leaves the hospital
he will turn me out of the house."

"Well," said Rodney, "great misfortunes have happened us both. It was a
cruel thing of the priest to tell your father that you sat for me. But
to pay someone to wreck my studio!"

Lucy begged of him not to believe too easily that Father McCabe had
done this. He must wait a little while, and he had better communicate
with the police. They would be able to find out who had done it.

"Now," she said, "I must go."

He glanced at the rags that had once covered his statue, but he had not
the courage to undo them. If his statue had been cast the ruin would
not be so irreparable. It could be put together in some sort of way.

Who would have done it but the priest? It was difficult to believe that
a priest could do such a thing, that anyone could do such a thing, it
was an inhuman thing to do. He might go to the police as Lucy had
suggested, and the police would inquire the matter out. But would that
be of any satisfaction; a wretched fine, a few days' imprisonment. Of
one thing he was sure, that nowhere except in Ireland could such a
thing happen. Thank God he was going! There was at least satisfaction
in knowing that only twelve hours of Ireland remained. To-morrow
evening he would be in Paris. He would leave the studio as it was.
Maybe he might take a few busts and sketches, a few books, and a few
pictures; he must take some of them with him, and he tried to formulate
some plan. But he could not collect his thoughts sufficiently to think
out the details. Would there be time to have a case made, or should he
leave them to be sold, or should he give orders that they should be
sent after him?

At that moment his eyes w