s, 'Poor Douglas!' And when the horrible
thing came back--the last time--he just whispered, 'Pray!' and I said
our Catholic prayers that our priest had said when my mother died. Then
Falloden came--just in time--and instead of wanting to kill him, I
waited there, a little way off, and prayed hard for myself and him!
Queer, wasn't it? And afterwards--you know--I saw his mother. Then the
next day, I confessed to a dear old priest, who was very kind to me, and
on the Sunday he gave me Communion. He said God had been very gracious
to me; and I saw what he meant. That very week I had a hemorrhage, the
first I ever had."

Connie gave a sudden, startled cry. He turned again to smile at her.

"Didn't you know? No, I believe no one knew, but Sorell and the doctors.
It was nothing. It's quite healed. But the strange thing was how
extraordinarily happy I felt that week. I didn't hate Falloden any more.
It was as though a sharp thorn had gone from one's mind. It didn't last
long of course, the queer ecstatic feeling. There was always my
hand--and I got very low again. But something lasted; and when Falloden
said that extraordinary thing--I don't believe he meant to say it at
all!--suggesting we should settle together for the winter--I knew
that I must do it. It was a kind of miracle--one thing after
another--driving us."

His voice dropped. He remained gazing absently into the fire.

"Dear Otto"--said Constance softly--"you have forgiven him?"

He smiled.

"What does that matter? Have you?"

His eager eyes searched her face. She faltered under them.

"He doesn't care whether I have or not."

At that he laughed out.

"Doesn't he? I say, did you ask us both to come--on purpose--that
afternoon?--in the garden?"

She was silent.

"It was bold of you!" he said, in the same laughing tone. "But it has
answered. Unless, of course, I bore him to death. I talk a lot of
nonsense--I can't help it--and he bears it. And he says hard, horrid
things, sometimes--and my blood boils--and I bear it. And I expect he
wants to break off a hundred times a day--and so do I. Yet here we stay.
And it's you"--he raised his head deliberately--"it's you who are really
at the bottom of it."

Constance rose trembling from her chair.

"Don't say any more, dear Otto. I didn't mean any harm. I--I was so
sorry for you both."

He laughed again softly.

"You've got to marry him!" he said triumphantly. "There!--you may go
now. But you'll come again