e good that is bought at such a price? Nothing
in this world! When you meet to-morrow night--you two children--tell him
that. Tell him I told you to say so. . . . I love you both. Don't break
your old priest's heart. He's in trouble enough for you already. Don't
let him think that he must lose you altogether. And then remember your
mother, too--that saint in heaven who suffered so long and was patient
. . . Everything will depend upon you, my child. In matters of this kind
the woman is the stronger vessel. Be strong for him also. Renounce your
guilty love, my daughter--"

"But I cannot, I cannot," I said. "I love him, and I cannot give him
up!"

"Let us ask God to help you," said Father Dan, and still holding my hand
he drew me down to my knees and knelt beside me. The room was dark by
this time, and only the sullen glow from the peat fire was on our faces.

Then in a low voice, so low that it was like his throbbing whisper
before the altar, when he raised the Sacred host, Father Dan prayed for
me (calling me his dear child whom God had committed to his care) that I
might keep my marriage vow and be saved from the temptation to break it.

His beautiful prayer or his throbbing voice, or both together, had a
great effect upon me, and when I rose to my feet, I felt stronger.
Although Martin was as dear to me as ever, I thought I saw my way at
last. If he loved me as I loved him, I had to be brave for both of us. I
had to oppose to the carnal instinct of love the spiritual impulse of
renunciation. Yes, yes, that was what I had to do.

Father Dan saw me to the door.

"Give my love to my boy," he said, "and don't forget what I told you to
tell him."

"I'll tell him," I replied, for though I knew my heart was bleeding I
felt calm and more courageous.

It was milking time and the cows were lowing in the byre when I crossed
the fields and the farm-yard on my way back to my father's house.

Early next morning I left it for Castle Raa.

SIXTY-THIRD CHAPTER

Although it was mid-day before I reached the Castle, the gate to the
park had not been opened, the drive was deserted and even the great door
to the house itself was closed.

And when, in answer to my ringing, one of the maids came after a certain
delay, wearing neither apron nor cap, I found the hall empty and no sign
of life in the house, except a shrill chorus of laughter which came from
the servants' quarters.

"What's the meaning of this?" I asked,