ur husband. Is it so much that I
ask of you? Think what is earned by it. If you have no pity for me, have
you none for him?"

She was struggling to pass him.

"Greta," he said, "choose, and at once. It is now or never.
To-night--to-morrow will be too late. You for a holy life of
self-renouncement, or your husband to drag out his miserable days in
penal servitude."

"This is only another lie. Let me pass," she said.

"It is the truth, as sure as God hears us," said Hugh.

"I shall never believe it."

"I will swear it." He laid a strong hand on her wrist. "I will swear it
at the very foot of God's altar."

He tried to draw her back into the church. She resisted.

"Let me go; I will cry for help."

He dropped her wrist, and fell back from her. She drew herself up in
silence, and walked slowly away.

He stood a moment alone in the sacristy. Then he went out through the
church. It was empty and all but dark. The sacristan, with a long rod,
was putting out the lights one by one. He turned, with arm uplifted, to
look after the halting figure that passed down the aisle and out at the
west porch.

CHAPTER XIII.

Abbey Gardens, the street in front, was dark and all but deserted. Only
a drunken woman went reeling along. But the dull buzz in the distance,
and the white sheet in the sky, told that, somewhere near, the wild
heart of the night beat high.

Hugh Ritson looked up at the heavy mass of the convent building as he
crossed the street. The lights were already out, and all was dark
within. He went on, but presently stopped by a sudden impulse, and
looked again.

It was then he was aware that something moved in the deep portico. The
lamp on the pavement sent a shaft of light on to the door, and there,
under the gas-light, with the face turned from him, was the figure of a
woman. She seemed to cast cautious and stealthy glances around, and to
lift a trembling hand to the bell that hung above her. The hand fell to
her side, but no ring followed. Once again the hand was lifted, and once
again it fell back. Then the woman crept totteringly down the steps and
turned to go.

Hugh Ritson recrossed the street. Amid all the turmoil of his soul, the
incident had arrested him.

The woman was coming toward him. He put himself in her path. The light
fell full upon her, and he saw her face.

It was Mercy Fisher.

With a low cry, the girl sunk back against the railings of the convent,
and covered her face with