once on the first lady
in the island. . . . Come in, my daughter, come in."

He was laughing as he let loose his Irish tongue, but I could see that
his housekeeper had not been wrong and that he looked worn and troubled.

As soon as he had taken me into his cosy study and put me to sit in the
big chair before the peat and wood fire, I would have begun on my
errand, but not a word would he hear until the tea had come up and I had
taken a cup of it.

Then stirring the peats for light as well as warmth, (for the room was
dark with its lining of books, and the evening was closing in) he said:

"Now what is it? Something serious--I can see that much."

"It _is_ serious, Father Dan."

"Tell me then," he said, and as well as I could I told him my story.

I told him that since I had seen him last, during that violent scene at
Castle Raa, my relations with my husband had become still more painful;
I told him that, seeing I could not endure any longer the degradation of
the life I was living, I had thought about divorce; I told him that
going first to the Bishop and afterwards to my father's advocate I had
learned that neither the Church nor the law, for their different
reasons, could grant me the relief I required; and finally, in a faint
voice (almost afraid to hear myself speak it), I told him my solemn and
sacred secret--that whatever happened I could not continue to live where
I was now living because I loved somebody else than my husband.

While I was speaking Father Dan was shuffling his feet and plucking at
his shabby cassock, and as soon as I had finished he flashed out on me
with an anger I had never seen in his face or heard in his voice before.

"I know who it is," he said. "It's Martin Conrad."

I was so startled by this that I was beginning to ask how he knew, when
he cried:

"Never mind how I know. Perhaps you think an old priest has no eyes for
anything but his breviary, eh? It's young Martin, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"The wretch, the rascal, the scoundrel! If he ever dares to come to this
house again, I'll slam the door in his face."

I knew he loved Martin almost as much as I did, so I paid no heed to the
names he was calling him, but I tried to say that I alone had been to
blame, and that Martin had done nothing.

"Don't tell me he has done nothing," cried Father Dan. "I know what he
has done He has told you he loves you, hasn't he?"

"No."

"He has been colloguing with you, then, and getting you