should do that same,
my boy,' he said, 'putting both yourself and that sweet child of mine
out of the Church for ever.' 'It's the Church that's putting us out,' I
told him. 'But God's holy law condemns it, my son,' he said. 'God's law
is love; and He has no other law,' I answered."

I was relieved and yet nervous, glad and yet afraid.

A week passed, and then the time came for Martin to go to Windsor for
his investiture. There had been great excitement in Sunny Lodge in
preparation for this event, but being a little unwell I had been out of
the range of it.

At the moment of Martin's departure I was in bed, and he had come
upstairs to say good-bye to me.

What had been happening in the meantime I hardly knew, but I had
gathered that he thought pressure would be brought to bear on me.

"Our good old Church is like a limpet on the shore," he said. "Once it
gets its suckers down it doesn't let go in a hurry. But sit tight,
little woman. Don't yield an inch while I'm away," he whispered.

When he left me I reached up to see him going down the road to the
railway station. His old father was walking proudly by his side,
bare-headed as usual and still as blithe as a boy.

Next day I was startled by an unexpected telegram. It came from a
convent in Lancashire and was addressed to "Mary O'Neill, care of Doctor
Conrad." It ran:

"_Am making a round of visits to the houses of our Society and would
like to see you on my way to Ireland. May I cross to-morrow? Mother
Magdalene_."

ONE HUNDRED AND TWELFTH CHAPTER

She arrived the following afternoon--my dear Reverend Mother with the
pale spiritual face and saint-like eyes.

Except that her habit was now blue and white instead of black, she
seemed hardly changed in any respect since our days at the Sacred Heart.

Finding that I was in bed, she put up at the "Plough" and came every day
to nurse me.

I was naturally agitated at seeing her again after so many years and
such various experiences, being uncertain how much she knew of them.

Remembering Martin's warning, I was also fairly certain that she had
been sent for, but my uneasiness on both heads soon wore off.

Her noiseless step, her soft voice, and her sweet smile soothed and
comforted me. I began to feel afresh the influence she had exercised
over me when I was a child, and to wonder why, during my dark time in
London, I had never thought of writing to her.

During the first days of her visit she said