Older and more mature, but otherwise unaltered, he decided as he took
her hand and shook it.

"You poor man! How pale you are!" she cried. "I only returned home last
week to hear that you had been so desperately ill."

"Home?" he asked, in a puzzled voice.

"The only home I have ever known. I have been miserable since I left
it," she explained.

"And Custance?" he questioned.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"He is impossible," she said. "I have done my utmost for him, but at
last there came a time when I could not go on. We have separated."

"With his consent?" he asked.

"Custance cares for nothing now but that cursed drug. Oh, what a fool I
have been," she almost moaned.

There came a painful silence, broken at last by her.

"But now I intend to return to the old life and the old friends. I shall
forget the horror of what I have endured.... You will help me to
forget?"

He was very weak and weary. As he watched her the old passion began to
return to him. But it so happened that he looked towards a picture given
him that very day by the old Jesuit Father. It was a simple painting of
the Sacred Heart, with no attempt at artistic beauty. That very day,
however, the old priest had spoken so eloquently of the mystery of love
portrayed by that poor picture that Desmond valued it better than if it
had been a treasure of art.

"I have done with the old life," he said.

"You fancy that now. But wait until you are strong and feel again the
joy of life," she said. "Then you will alter your mind."

"Tell me about your trouble," he suggested.

"No. Not that, please. It is bad enough to have lived it. It was pure
misery and hopelessness. I prefer to talk of anything but that."

They were still talking when Kathleen returned. She concealed the dismay
and dread that she felt in finding Sylvia Custance with Desmond. She
feared the old influence that had so vitally helped to ruin her
brother's life and drive him from his Faith. At present he was weak in
body, and like an infant in religion. The slightest obstacle might turn
him again to his former state of doubt. At this critical stage Sylvia
Custance was a great danger. But it flashed into her mind that Desmond
must fight his own fight unaided. If he succumbed again it was not her
fault. She could only pray for him.

That evening when she bade him good-night, he said to her:

"I think I will go down to Grey Town to-morrow, Kath."

"Are you strong enough?" she a