sient. He recognized that he had fallen from the
state of a priest vowed to Heaven, to that of a man whose whole heart
and mind had gone out in love for a woman and were filled with her
image. His judgment of himself was utterly reversed, his
pre-suppositions confounded, his scheme of life wrecked; all this he
knew for truth, unless indeed it might be that victory could still be
his--victory after a struggle even to death; a struggle that had found
no type or forecast in the mimic contests that had marked, almost
without disturbing, his earlier progress on the road of his choice.

In the long hours that he sat gazing at the picture his mind was the
scene of changing moods. At first the sense of horror and shame was
paramount. He was aghast at himself and too full of self-abhorrence to
do more than fight blindly away from what he could not but see. He would
fain have lost his senses if only to buy the boon of ignorance. Then
this mood passed. The long habit of his heart asserted itself, and he
fell on his knees, no longer in horror, but in abasement and penitence.
Now all his thought was for the sin he had done to Heaven and to his
vow; but had he not learnt and taught, and re-learnt in teaching, that
there was no sin without pardon, if pardon were sought? And for a
moment, not peace, but the far-off possible hope and prospect of peace
regained comforted his spirit. It might be yet that he would come
through the dark valley, and gaze with his old eyes on the light of his
life set in the sky.

But was his sin only against Heaven and his vow and himself? Is sin so
confined? If Morewood had seen, had not others? Had not she seen? Would
not the discovery he had made come to her also? Nay, had it not come?
He had been blind; but had she? Was it not far more likely that she had
not deceived herself as to the tendency of their friendship, nor dreamt
that he meant anything except what his acts, words, and looks had so
plainly--yes, to his own eyes now, so plainly declared? He looked back
on her graciousness, her delight in his society, her unconcealed
admiration for him. What meaning had these but one? What did she know of
his vow? Why should she dream of anything save the happy ending of the
story that flits before the half-averted eyes of a girl when she is with
her lover? Even if she had heard of his vow, would they not all tell her
it was a conceit of youth, a spiritual affectation, a thing that a wise
counselor would tell