sauntered on with the purpose of
finding the cemetery, where the granite cross stood over the grave that
had occupied so much of her thoughts since she had heard of Roland
Sefton's death. She reached it at last and stood motionless before it,
looking back through all the years in which she had mourned with
Roland's mother his untimely death. He whom she had mourned for was not
lying here; but did not his life hold deeper cause for grief than his
death ever had? Standing there, so far from home, in the quiet morning,
with this grave at her feet, she answered to herself a question which
had been troubling her for many months. Yes, it was a right thing to do,
on the whole, to keep this secret--Felicita's secret as well as
Roland's--forever locked in her own heart. There was concealment in it
closely verging, as it must always do, on deception. Phebe's whole
nature revolted against concealment. She loved to live her life out in
the eye of day. But the story of Roland Sefton's crime, and the penance
done for it, in its completeness could never be given to the world; it
must always result in some measure in misleading the judgment of those
most interested in it. There was little to be gained and much to be
sacrificed by its disclosure. Felicita's death seemed to give a new
weight to every reason for keeping the secret; and it was safe in her
keeping and Mr. Clifford's: when a few years were gone it would be hers
alone. The cross most heavy for her to bear she must carry, hidden from
every eye; but she could bear it faithfully, even unto death.

As her lips whispered the last three words, giving to her resolution a
definite form and utterance, a shadow beside her own fell upon the
cross. She turned quickly and met the kindly inquisitive gaze of the
mountain cure who had led Felicita to this spot yesterday. He had been
among the first who followed Jean Merle as he carried her lifeless form
through the village street; and he had run to the monastery to seek what
medical aid could be had there. The incident was one of great interest
to him. Phebe's frank yet sorrowful face, turned to him with its
expression of ready sympathy with any fellow-creature, won from the
young priest the cordial friendliness that everywhere greeted her. He
stood bareheaded before her, as he had done before Felicita, but he
spoke to her in a tone of more familiar intercourse.

"Madame, pardon," he said, "but you are in grief, and I would offer you
my co