imself, associated with the woman--to
him always the girl--whose happiness he had wrecked. For the other woman,
the mother of his child, was nothing to him at the time of the discovery.
She had accepted the position and was going away forever, even as she did
go after all was over.

He expected to see the girl he had loved and wronged this day. He had
anticipated it with a kind of fierceness, for, if he had wronged her, he
felt that he too had been wronged, though he could never, and would never,
justify himself. He came down from the pathway and wandered through the
long silent cloisters.

There were no visitors about; it was past the usual hour. He came into the
old refectory, and the kitchen with its immense chimney, passed in and out
of the little chapels, exploring almost mechanically, yet remembering what
he saw, and everything was mingled almost grotesquely with three scenes
in his life--two of which we know; the other, when his aged father turned
from him dying and would not speak to him. The ancient peace of this place
mocked these other scenes and places. He came into the long, unroofed
aisle, with its battered sides and floor of soft turf, broken only by some
memorial brasses over graves. He looked up and saw upon the walls the
carved figures of little grinning demons between complacent angels. The
association of these with his own thoughts stirred him to laughter--a low,
cold laugh, which shone on his white teeth.

Outside a few people were coming toward the abbey from both parties of
excursionists. Hagar and Mrs. Detlor were walking by themselves. Mrs.
Detlor was speaking almost breathlessly. "Yes, I recognized the writing.
She is nothing, then, to you, nor has ever been?"

"Nothing, on my honor. I did her a service once. She asks me to do
another, of which I am as yet ignorant. That is all. Here is her letter."

CHAPTER III.

NO OTHER WAY.

George Hagar was the first to move. He turned and looked at Mrs. Detlor.
His mind was full of the strangeness of the situation--this man and woman
meeting under such circumstances after twelve years, in which no lines of
their lives had ever crossed. But he saw, almost unconsciously, that she
had dropped his rose. He stooped, picked it up and gave it to her. With a
singular coolness--for, though pale, she showed no excitement--she quietly
arranged the flower at her throat, still looking at the figure on the
platform. A close observer would occasionally ha