s--when I find discipline
necessary, I shall suffer my disappointment and close my doors."

"Is your house open," Catherine asked, "to men and women alike?"

He was eager to speak with her on a subject more interesting to him
even than his Home. Answering her question, in this frame of mind, his
thoughts wandered; he drew lines absently with his walking-stick on the
soft earth under the trees.

"The means at my disposal," he said, "are limited. I have been obliged
to choose between the men and the women."

"And you have chosen women?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because a lost woman is a more friendless creature than a lost man."

"Do they come to you? or do you look for them?"

"They mostly come to me. There is one young woman, however, now waiting
to see me, whom I have been looking for. I am deeply interested in her."

"Is it her beauty that interests you?"

"I have not seen her since she was a child. She is the daughter of an
old friend of mine, who died many years ago."

"And with that claim on you, you keep her waiting?"

"Yes."

He let his stick drop on the ground and looked at Catherine; but
he offered no explanation of his strange conduct. She was a little
disappointed. "You have been some time away from your Home," she said;
still searching for his reasons. "When do you go back?"

"I go back," he answered, "when I know whether I may thank God for being
the happiest man living."

They were both silent.

Chapter XLIV. Think of Consequences.

Catherine listened to the fall of water in the basin of the fountain.
She was conscious of a faint hope--a hope unworthy of her--that Kitty
might get weary of the gold-fishes, and might interrupt them. No such
thing happened; no stranger appeared on the path which wound through the
garden. She was alone with him. The influences of the still and fragrant
summer evening were influences which breathed of love.

"Have you thought of me since yesterday?" he asked gently.

She owned that she had thought of him.

"Is there no hope that your heart will ever incline toward me?"

"I daren't consult my heart. If I had only to consider my own
feelings--" She stopped.

"What else have you to consider?"

"My past life--how I have suffered, and what I have to repent of."

"Has your married life not been a happy one?" he asked.

"Not a happy one--in the end," she answered.

"Through no fault of yours, I am sure?"

"Through no fault of mine, certainly."

"