ther who
answered the door; her face, which spoke of ordinary comfort and good
cheer, bore marks of recent tears.

'Do you know,' asked the Father curiously, 'what statement it was that
your mother communicated to my friend who was here yesterday?'

'No, sir, I do not.'

'Your mother was yesterday in her usual health and sound mind?' he
interrogated gently.

'She was indeed, sir,' and she wiped a tear.

'I would like to see your mother,' persisted he.

'She had a stroke in the night, sir; she's lying easy now, but she knows
no one, and the doctor says she'll never hear or see or speak again.'

The old man sighed deeply.

'If I may make so bold, sir, will you tell me what business it was my
mother had with the young man yesterday or with yourself?'

'It is not well that I should tell you,' he replied, and he went
away.

IV

A TAINT IN THE BLOOD

CHAPTER I

The curate was walking on the cliffs with his lady-love. All the sky was
grey, and all the sea was grey. The soft March wind blew over the rocky
shore; it could not rustle the bright green weed that hung wet from the
boulders, but it set all the tufts of grass upon the cliffs nodding to
the song of the ebbing tide. The lady was the vicar's daughter; her name
was Violetta.

'Let us stand still here,' said the curate, 'for there is something I
must say to you to-day.' So they stood still and looked at the sea.

'Violetta,' said the curate, 'you cannot be ignorant that I have long
loved you. Last night I took courage and told your father of my hope and
desire that you should become my wife. He told me what I did not know,
that you have already tasted the joy of love and the sorrow of its
disappointment. I can only ask you now if this former love has made it
impossible that you should love again.'

'No,' she answered; 'for although I loved and sorrowed then with all the
strength of a child's heart, still it was only as a child, and that is
past.'

'Will you be my wife?' said the curate.

'I cannot choose but say "yes," I love you so much.'

Then they turned and went back along the cliffs, and the curate was very
happy. 'But tell me,' he said, 'about this other man that loved you.'

'His name was Herbert. He was the squire's son. He loved me and I loved
him, but afterwards we found that his mother had been mad----' Violetta
paused and turned her sweet blue eyes upon the sea.

'So you could not marry?' said the curate.

'No,' said Violet