the Celt turns John
into Ian. I will not call him Ian again. Not once will I do it."

Then she covered her eyes with her hand and a sharp, chagrined catch
of her breath broke the hush of the still room. And her voice, though
little stronger than a whisper, was full of painful wonder. "What will
people say? What shall we say? Oh, the shame! Oh, the mortification!
Who will now live in my pretty home? Who will eat my wedding cake?
What will become of my wedding dress? Oh, Thora! Thora! Love has led
thee a shameful, cruel road! What wilt thou do? What can thou do?"

Then a singular thing happened. A powerful thought from some forgotten
life came with irresistible strength into her mind, and though she did
not speak the words suggested, she prayed them--if prayer be that
hidden, never-dying imploration that goes with the soul from one
incarnation to another--for the words that sprang to her memory must
have been learned centuries before, "Oh, Mary! Mary! Mother of Jesus
Christ! Thou that drank the cup of all a woman's griefs and wrongs,
pray for me!"

And she was still and silent as the words passed through her
consciousness. She thought every one of them, they seemed at the
moment so real and satisfying. Then she began to wonder and ask
herself, "Where did those words come from? When did I hear them? Where
did I say them before? How do they come to be in my memory? From what
strange depth of Life did they come? Did I ever have a Roman Catholic
nurse? Did she whisper them to my soul, when I was sick and suffering?
I must ask mother--oh, how tired and sleepy I feel--I will go to
bed--I have done no good, come to no decision. I will sleep--I will
tell mother in the morning--I wish I had let her stop with me--mother
always knows--what is the best way----" And thus the heart-breaking
session ended in that blessed hostel, The Inn of Dreamless Sleep.

There was, however, little sleep in the House of Ragnor that night,
and very early in the morning Ragnor, fully dressed, spoke to his
wife. "Art thou waking yet, Rahal?" he asked, and Rahal answered, "I
have slept little. I have been long awake."

"Well then, what dost thou think now of Ian Macrae, so-called?"

"I think little amiss of him--some youthful follies--nothing to make a
fuss about."

"Hast thou considered that the follies of youth may become the follies
of manhood, and of age? What then?"

"We are not told to worry about what may be."

"Ian has evidently been l