in the world, following the
Commandment of his Master, would dare to marry you."

What happened after that I cannot exactly say. I remember that, feeling
the colour flying to my face, I flung up my hands to cover it, and that
when I came to full possession of my senses again Father Dan (himself in
a state of great agitation) was smoothing my arms and comforting me.

"Don't be angry with your old priest for telling you the truth--the
bitter truth, my daughter."

He had always seen this dark hour coming to him, and again and again he
had prayed to be delivered from it--in the long nights of his fruitless
wanderings when I was lost in London, and again since I had been found
and had come home and he had looked on, with many a pang, at our silent
hopes and expectations--Martin's and mine, we two children.

"And when you came into my little den to-day, my daughter, with a face
as bright as stars and diamonds, God knows I would have given half of
what is left of my life that mine should not be the hand to dash the cup
of your happiness away."

As soon as I was sufficiently composed, within and without, Father Dan
led me downstairs (praying God and His Holy Mother to strengthen me on
my solitary way), and then stood at the door in his cassock to watch me
while I walked up the road.

It was hardly more than half an hour since I had passed over the ground
before, yet in that short time the world seemed to have become pale and
grey--the sun gone out, the earth grown dark, the still air joyless,
nothing left but the everlasting heavens and the heavy song of the sea.

As I approached the doctor's house Martin came swinging down the road to
meet me, with his strong free step and that suggestion of the wind from
the mountain-tops which seemed to be always about him.

"Hello!" he cried. "Thought you were lost and been hunting all over the
place for you."

But as he came nearer and saw how white and wan my face was, though I
was doing my best to smile, he stopped and said:

"My poor little woman, where have you been, and what have they been
doing to you?"

And then, as well as I could, I told him.

ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVENTH CHAPTER

"It's all my fault," he said.

He had led me to the garden-house, which stood among the bluebells at
the end of the orchard, and was striding to and fro in front of it.

"I knew perfectly what the attitude of the Church would be, and I ought
to have warned you."

I had never befor