to say things?"

"Never."

"Pitying and sympathising with you, anyway, in your relations with your
husband?"

"Not for one moment."

"He had better not! Big man as he is in England now, I'll warm his
jacket for him if he comes here making mischief with a child of mine.
But thank the Lord and the holy saints he's going away soon, so you'll
see no more of him."

"But he is coming to Castle Raa," I said, "and I am to see him to-morrow
night."

"That too! The young scoundrel!"

I explained that my husband had invited him, being prompted to do so by
the other woman.

"Worse and worse!" cried Father Dan. "Don't you see that they're laying
a trap for you, and like two young fools you're walking directly into
it. But no matter! You mustn't go."

I told him that I should be compelled to do so, for Martin was coming on
my account only, and I could neither tell him the truth nor make an
excuse that would not be a falsehood.

"Well, well, perhaps you're right there. It's not the best way to meet
temptation to be always running away from it. That's Irish, but it's
true enough, though. You must conquer this temptation, my child; you
must fight it and overcome it."

"But I've tried and tried and I cannot," I said.

And then I told him the story of my struggle--how love had been no
happiness to me but only a cruel warfare, how I had suffered and prayed
and gone to mass and confession, yet all to no purpose, for my affection
for Martin was like a blazing fire which nothing could put out.

Father Dan's hands and lips were trembling while I spoke and I could see
that he was shuddering with pity for me, so I went on to say that if God
had put this pure and holy love into my heart could it be wrong--

"Stop a minute," cried Father Dan. "Who says God put it there? And who
informed you it was pure and holy? Let us see where we are. Come, now.
You say the Bishop told you that you could never be divorced under any
circumstances?"

"Yes."

"Yet you wish to leave your husband?"

"How can I help it? The life I have been living is too horrible."

"Never mind that now. You wish to leave your husband, don't you?"

"I . . . I must."

"And you want to go to this . . . this young . . . in short, you want to
go to Martin Conrad? That's the plain truth, isn't it? Don't deny it.
Very well, let us call things by their proper names. What is the fact?
You are asking me--me, your spiritual Father--to allow you to live a
life of ope