turn now, Father!' Wharton's face was flushed with the fire of
his first embrace.

There was an exultant ring to his voice as he abdicated in the other's
favor. He had no doubt as to the result. Neither had Grace, for a smile
played about her mouth as she faced the priest.

'My child,' he began, 'my heart bleeds for you. It is a pretty dream,
but it cannot be.'

'And why, Father? I have said yes.' 'You knew not what you did. You did
not think of the oath you took, before your God, to that man who is
your husband. It remains for me to make you realize the sanctity of
such a pledge.' 'And if I do realize, and yet refuse?'

'Then God'

'Which God? My husband has a God which I care not to worship. There
must be many such.' 'Child! unsay those words! Ah! you do not mean
them. I understand. I, too, have had such moments.' For an instant he
was back in his native France, and a wistful, sad-eyed face came as a
mist between him and the woman before him.

'Then, Father, has my God forsaken me? I am not wicked above women. My
misery with him has been great. Why should it be greater? Why shall I
not grasp at happiness? I cannot, will not, go back to him!' 'Rather is
your God forsaken. Return. Throw your burden upon Him, and the darkness
shall be lifted. O my child,--' 'No; it is useless; I have made my bed
and so shall I lie. I will go on. And if God punishes me, I shall bear
it somehow. You do not understand. You are not a woman.' 'My mother was
a woman.'

'But--' 'And Christ was born of a woman.' She did not answer. A silence
fell. Wharton pulled his mustache impatiently and kept an eye on the
trail. Grace leaned her elbow on the table, her face set with resolve.
The smile had died away. Father Roubeau shifted his ground.

'You have children?'

'At one time I wished--but now--no. And I am thankful.' 'And a mother?'
'Yes.' 'She loves you?' 'Yes.' Her replies were whispers.

'And a brother?--no matter, he is a man. But a sister?' Her head
drooped a quavering 'Yes.' 'Younger? Very much?' 'Seven years.' 'And
you have thought well about this matter? About them? About your mother?
And your sister? She stands on the threshold of her woman's life, and
this wildness of yours may mean much to her. Could you go before her,
look upon her fresh young face, hold her hand in yours, or touch your
cheek to hers?'

To his words, her brain formed vivid images, till she cried out,
'Don't! don't!' and shrank away as do the wolf-dogs fro