out the appeals of his
lower nature. It was in this mood that he returned.

Father Monies was awaiting him, and welcomed him with that look of
affection, of more than brotherly love, which the good man had for the
younger priest.

"I hope your walk has done you good."

"Perhaps," Father Damon replied, without any leniency in his face; "but
that does not matter. I must tell you what I could not last night. Can
you hear me?"

They went together into the oratory. Father Damon did not spare himself.
He kept nothing back that could heighten the enormity of his offense.

And Father Monies did not attempt to lessen the impression upon himself
of the seriousness of the scandal. He was shocked. He was exceedingly
grave, but he was even more pitiful. His experience of life had been
longer than that of the penitent. He better knew its temptations. His
own peace had only been won by long crucifixion of the natural desires.

"I have nothing to say as to your own discipline. That you know. But
there is one thing. You must face this temptation, and subdue it."

"You mean that I must go back to my labor in the city?"

"Yes. You can rest here a few days if you feel too weak physically."

"No; I am well enough." He hesitated. "I thought perhaps some other
field, for a time?"

"There is no other field for you. It is not for the moment the question
of where you can do most good. You are to reinstate yourself. You are
a soldier of the Lord Jesus, and you are to go where the battle is most
dangerous."

That was the substance of it all. There was much affectionate counsel
and loving sympathy mingled with all the inflexible orders of obedience,
but the sin must be faced and extirpated in presence of the enemy.

On the morrow Father Damon went back to his solitary rooms, to his
chapel, to the round of visitations, to his work with the poor, the
sinful, the hopeless. He did not seek her; he tried not to seem to avoid
her, or to seem to shun the streets where he was most likely to meet
her, and the neighborhoods she frequented. Perhaps he did avoid them a
little, and he despised himself for doing it. Almost involuntarily he
looked to the bench by the chapel door which she occasionally occupied
at vespers. She was never there, and he condemned himself for thinking
that she might be; but yet wherever he walked there was always the
expectation that he might encounter her. As the days went by and she
did not appear, his expectation bec