simply because I made a fool of myself when I was in my
teens? Other men are not eternally punished like that, for what they
did as boys, and I won't submit to it either. I will be as free to enjoy
myself as--as Father Forbes."

Celia smiled softly, and shook her head again. "Poor man, to call HIM
free!" she said: "why, he is bound hand and foot. You don't in the least
realize how he is hedged about, the work he has to do, the thousand
suspicious eyes that watch his every movement, eager to bring the Bishop
down upon him. And then think of his sacrifice--the great sacrifice of
all--to never know what love means, to forswear his manhood, to live
a forlorn, celibate life--you have no idea how sadly that appeals to a
woman."

"Let us sit down here for a little," said Theron; "we seem at the end of
the path." She seated herself on the root-based mound, and he reclined
at her side, with an arm carelessly extended behind her on the moss.

"I can see what you mean," he went on, after a pause. "But to me, do you
know, there is an enormous fascination in celibacy. You forget that I
know the reverse of the medal. I know how the mind can be cramped, the
nerves harassed, the ambitions spoiled and rotted, the whole existence
darkened and belittled, by--by the other thing. I have never talked to
you before about my marriage."

"I don't think we'd better talk about it now," observed Celia. "There
must be many more amusing topics."

He missed the spirit of her remark. "You are right," he said slowly. "It
is too sad a thing to talk about. But there! it is my load, and I bear
it, and there's nothing more to be said."

Theron drew a heavy sigh, and let his fingers toy abstractedly with a
ribbon on the outer edge of Celia's penumbra of apparel.

"No," she said. "We mustn't snivel, and we mustn't sulk. When I get into
a rage it makes me ill, and I storm my way through it and tear things,
but it doesn't last long, and I come out of it feeling all the better.
I don't know that I've ever seen your wife. I suppose she hasn't got red
hair?"

"I think it's a kind of light brown," answered Theron, with an effect of
exerting his memory.

"It seems that you only take notice of hair in stained-glass windows,"
was Celia's comment.

"Oh-h!" he murmured reproachfully, "as if--as if--but I won't say what I
was going to."

"That's not fair!" she said. The little touch of whimsical mockery which
she gave to the serious declaration was delici