ong lock to it, was set in this
closely clipped hedge. It opened on a steep path which, after traversing
two fields, terminated in the beech-wood where now ran the iron track of
the new railroad.

Catherine Nagle unlocked the orchard gate, and went through on to the
field path. And then she slackened her steps.

For hours, nay, for days, she had been longing for solitude, and now,
for a brief space, solitude was hers. But, instead of bringing her
peace, this respite from the companionship of Charles and of Mr.
Dorriforth brought increased tumult and revolt.

She had ardently desired the visit of the old priest, but his presence
had bestowed, instead of solace, fret and discomfort. When he fixed on
her his mild, penetrating eyes, she felt as if he were dragging into the
light certain secret things which had been so far closely hidden within
her heart, and concerning which she had successfully dulled her once
sensitive conscience.

The waking hours of the last two days had each been veined with torment.
Her soul sickened as she thought of the morrow, St. Catherine's Day,
that is, her feast-day. The _emigres_, Mrs. Nagle's own people, had in
exile jealousy kept up their own customs, and to Charles Nagle's wife
the twenty-fifth day of November had always been a day of days, what her
birthday is to a happy Englishwoman. Even Charles always remembered the
date, and in concert with his faithful man-servant, Collins, sent to
London each year for a pretty jewel. The housefolk, all of whom had
learnt to love their mistress, and who helped her loyally in her
difficult, sometimes perilous, task, also made of the feast a holiday.

But now, on this St. Catherine's Eve, Mrs. Nagle told herself that she
was at the end of her strength. And yet only a month ago--so she now
reminded herself piteously--all had been well with her; she had been
strangely, pathetically happy a month since; content with all the
conditions of her singular and unnatural life....

Suddenly she stopped walking. As if in answer to a word spoken by an
invisible companion she turned aside, and, stooping, picked a weed
growing by the path. She held it up for a moment to her cheek, and then
spoke aloud. "Were it not for James Mottram," she said slowly, and very
clearly, "I, too, should become mad."

Then she looked round in sudden fear. Catherine Nagle had never before
uttered, or permitted another to utter aloud in her presence, that awful
word. But she knew t