hard, perhaps a cruel, letter; but I'm
feeling differently now. The truth is that your letter arrived at an
unfortunate moment when things were going badly with me.'

'I'm forgiven,' Father Oliver cried--'I'm forgiven;' and his joy was so
great that the rest of the letter seemed unnecessary, but he continued
to read:

'Father O'Grady has no doubt told you that I have given up my post of
organist in his church, Mr. Poole having engaged me to teach his
daughter music and to act as his secretary. In a little letter which I
received about a fortnight ago from him he told me he had written to
you, and it appears that you have recovered from your scruples of
conscience, and have forgotten the wrong you did me; but if I know you
at all, you are deceiving yourself. You will never forget the wrong you
did me. But I shall forget. I am not sure that it has not already passed
out of my mind. This will seem contradictory, for didn't I say that I
couldn't forget your cruelty in my first letter? I wonder if I meant it
when I wrote, "Put the whole thing and me out of your mind...." I
suppose I did at the time, and yet I doubt it. Does anyone want to be
forgotten utterly?

'I should have written to you before, but we have been busy. Mr. Poole's
book has been promised by the end of the year. It's all in type, but he
is never satisfied. To-day he has gone to London to seek information
about the altars of the early Israelites. It's a wonderful book, but I
cannot write about it to-day; the sun is shining, the country is looking
lovely, and my pupil is begging me to finish my letter and go out with
her.

'Very sincerely yours,

'NORA GLYNN.'

'So forgiveness has come at last,' he said; and as he walked along the
shore he fell to thinking that very soon all her life in Garranard would
be forgotten. 'She seems interested in her work,' he muttered; and his
mind wandered over the past, trying to arrive at a conclusion, if there
was or was not a fundamental seriousness in her character, inclining on
the whole to think there was, for if she was not serious fundamentally,
she would not have been chosen by Mr. Poole for his secretary. 'My
little schoolmistress, the secretary of a great scholar! How very
extraordinary! But why is it extraordinary? When will she write again?'
And every night he wished for the dawn, and every morning he asked if
there were any letters for him. 'No, your reverence, no letters this
morning;' and when Catherine