me," the
priest went on, in a low, pained voice. "I did everything in my power to
stop her, but I could do nothing--she had given her word!"

"Given her word?" repeated Agnes wonderingly.

"Yes," said Father Ferguson; "she had given that wretched, that wickedly
selfish man her promise. She believed that if she broke her word he
would kill himself. I begged her to go and see some woman--some kind,
pitiful, understanding woman--but I suppose she feared lest such a one
would dissuade her to more purpose than I was able to do."

Agnes looked at him with troubled eyes.

"She was very dear to my heart," the priest went on. "She was always a
generous, unselfish child, and she was very, very fond of you, Agnes."

Agnes's throat tightened. What Father Ferguson said was only too true.
Teresa had always been a very generous and unselfish girl, and very,
very fond of her. She wondered remorsefully if she had omitted to do or
say anything she could have done or said on the day that poor Teresa had
come and spoken such strange, wild words----?

"It seems so awful," she said in a low voice, "so very, very awful to
think that we may not even pray for her soul, Father Ferguson."

"Not pray for her soul?" the priest repeated. "Why should we not pray
for the poor child's soul? I shall certainly pray for Teresa's soul
every day till I die."

"But--but how can you do that, when she killed herself?"

He looked at her surprised. "And do you really so far doubt God's mercy?
Surely we may hope--nay, trust--that Teresa had time to make an act of
contrition?" And then he muttered something--it sounded like a line or
two of poetry--which Agnes did not quite catch; but she felt, as she
often did feel when with Father Ferguson, at once rebuked and
rebellious.

Of course there _might_ have been time for Teresa to make an act of
contrition. But every one knows that to take one's life is a deadly
sin. Agnes felt quite sure that if it ever occurred to herself to do
such a thing she would go straight to hell. Still, she was used to obey
this old priest, and that even when she did not agree with him. So she
followed him into the church, and side by side they knelt down and each
said a separate prayer for the soul of Teresa Maldo.

As Agnes Barlow walked slowly and soberly home, this time by the high
road, she tried to remember the words, the lines of poetry, that Father
Ferguson had muttered. They at once haunted and eluded her memory.
Surel