r occurred to him. Made in ignorance, unwitnessed though his
vow might be, it remained inviolable. He never, even in this most
heated hour of his trial, doubted that.

Stretching out his arms, he clenched his hands in anguish of spirit.
The sacerdotal pride, the subjective joys of self-consecration, the
mental luxury of feeling himself different from others, singled out,
set apart,--all the Pharisee, in short, in Julius March,--was sick to
death. He had supposed he was living to God--and now it appeared to him
he had lived only to himself. He had trusted God too little, had come
near reckoning the great natural laws--which, after all, must be of
God's ordering--common and unclean. Katherine was right. The eternal
purpose is joy, not sorrow; youth and health, not age and decay;
thankful acceptance, not fastidious rejection and fear. Katherine--yes,
Katherine--and there the young man's wild tirade stopped----

He flung himself down in front of the writing-table, leaning his elbows
on it, pressing his face upon his folded arms. For in good truth, what
did it all amount to? Not outraged laws of nature, not sins against the
Holy Ghost; but just simply this, that the common fate had overtaken
him. He loved a woman, and in so loving had, at last, found himself.

The most vital experiences are beyond language. When Julius looked up,
his eyes rested upon the bronze _pieta_, age-old witness to the
sanctity of motherhood and of suffering alike. His face was wet with
tears. He was faint and weak; yet a certain calm had come to him. He no
longer quarreled--though his attitude towards them was greatly
changed--either with his priestly calling or his rashly made vow. Not
as sources of pride did he now regard them; but as searching discipline
to be borne humbly and faithfully, to the honour--as he prayed--both of
earthly and heavenly love. He loved Katherine, but he loved her husband
and that with the fulness of a loyal and equal friendship. And so no
taint was upon his love, of this he felt certain. Indeed, he asked
nothing better than that things might continue as they were at
Brockhurst; and that he might continue to warm his hands a little--only
a little--in the dear sunshine of Richard and Katherine Calmady's
perfect love.

As Julius rose his knees gave under him. He rested both hands heavily
on the table, looked down, saw the unsightly packet of dirty
chap-books. Again, and almost with a cry, he prayed that things might
conti