erborough. Obviously a couple of tramps had turned into this stable
for shelter. Perhaps the girl was the man's daughter; perhaps his wife;
perhaps neither. Plainly they had no right there--and that would explain
the embarrassed silence of the two: they knew they were trespassing, and
feared to be turned away. Perhaps already they had been turned away from
the village inn. But the girl was obviously tired out, and the man had
determined to risk it.

That, then, was the whole affair--commonplace, and even a little sordid.
And yet Frank thought that it was worth writing down!

CHAPTER VI

_An extract, taken by permission, from a few pages of Frank Guiseley's
diary. These pages were written with the encouragement of Dom Hildebrand
Maple, O.S.B., and were sent to him later at his own request._

"... He told me a great many things that surprised me. For instance, he
seemed to know all about certain ideas that I had had, before I told him
of them, and said that I was not responsible, and he picked out one or
two other things that I had said, and told me that these were much more
serious....

"I went to confession to him on Friday morning, in the church. He did
not say a great deal then, but he asked if I would care to talk to him
afterwards. I said I would, and went to him in the parlor after dinner.
The first thing that happened was that he asked me to tell him as
plainly as I could anything that had happened to me--in my soul, I
mean--since I had left Cambridge. So I tried to describe it.

"I said that at first things went pretty well in my soul, and that it
was only bodily things that troubled me--getting fearfully tired and
stiff, being uncomfortable, the food, the sleeping, and so on. Then, as
soon as this wore off I met the Major and Gertie. I was rather afraid of
saying all that I felt about these; but he made me, and I told him how
extraordinarily I seemed to hate them sometimes, how I felt almost sick
now and then when the Major talked to me and told me stories.... The
thing that seemed to torment me most during this time was the contrast
between Cambridge and Merefield and the people there, and the company of
this pair; and the only relief was that I knew I _could_, as a matter of
fact, chuck them whenever I wanted and go home again. But this relief
was taken away from me as soon as I understood that I had to keep with
them, and do my best somehow to separate them. Of course, I must get
Gertie back to