you with such a
confession, I should have answered that he was a liar. But now you
see----"

"Yes," repeated Mary, "I see."

"Then will you give me your answer? For you must judge; I have told you
that you must judge."

"Judge not, that ye be not judged," answered Mary. "Who am I that I
should pass sentence on your failings? Goodness knows that I have plenty
of my own; if you don't believe me, go and ask the nuns at that convent.
Whatever were the rights and wrongs of it, the thing is finished and
done with, and nobody can be more sorry for that unfortunate girl than
I am. Also I think that you have behaved very well in coming to tell me
about your trouble; but then that is like you, Morris, for you couldn't
be deceitful, however hard you might try.

"So, dear, with your leave, we will say no more about Stella Fregelius
and her spiritual views. When I engaged myself to you, as I told you
at the time, I did so with my eyes open, for better or for worse, and
unless you tell me right out that you don't want me, I have no intention
of changing my mind, especially as you need looking after, and are not
likely to come across another Stella.

"There, I haven't talked so much for months; I am quite tired, and
wish to forget about all these disagreeables. I am afraid I have spoken
sharply, but if so you must make allowances, for such stories are apt
to sour the sweetest-tempered women--for half an hour. If I have
seemed bitter and cross, dear, it is because I love you better than any
creature in the world, and can't bear to think----So you must forgive
me. Do you, Morris?"

"Forgive! _I_ forgive!" he stammered overwhelmed.

"There," she said again, very softly, stretching out her arms, "come and
give me a kiss, and let us change the subject once and for ever. I
want to tell you about my poor father; he left some messages for you,
Morris."

CHAPTER XIX

MORRIS, THE MARRIED MAN

More than three years had gone by. Within twelve weeks of the date
of the conversation recorded in the last chapter Morris and Mary were
married in Monksland church. Although the wedding was what is called
"quiet" on account of the recent death of the bride's father, the
Colonel, who gave her away, was careful that it should be distinguished
by a certain stamp of modest dignity, which he considered to be fitting
to the station and fortune of the parties. To him, indeed, this union
was the cause of heartfelt and earnest rejoicings, which