I

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      There was an exclamation, then silence, as a tall, beautiful girl with flushed face and shining grey eyes came forward and stopped, followed by a man whom Percy knew at once from his pictures. A little whimpering sounded from the bed, and the priest lifted his hand instinctively to silence it.

      "Why," said Mabel; and then stared at the man with the young face and the white hair.

      Oliver opened his lips and closed them again. He, too, had a strange excitement in his face. Then he spoke.

      "Who is this?" he said deliberately.

      "Oliver," cried the girl, turning to him abruptly, "this is the priest I saw—-"

      "A priest!" said the other, and came forward a step. "Why, I thought—-"

      Percy drew a breath to steady that maddening vibration in his throat.

      "Yes, I am a priest," he said.

      Again the whimpering broke out from the bed; and Percy, half turning again to silence it, saw the girl mechanically loosen the clasp of the thin dust cloak over her white dress.

      "You sent for him, mother?" snapped the man, with a tremble in his voice, and with a sudden jerk forward of his whole body. But the girl put out her hand.

      "Quietly, my dear," she said. "Now, sir—-"

      "Yes, I am a priest," said Percy again, strung up now to a desperate resistance of will, hardly knowing what he said.

      "And you come to my house!" exclaimed the man. He came a step nearer, and half recoiled. "You swear you are a priest?" he said. "You have been here all this evening?"

      "Since midnight."

      "And you are not—-" he stopped again.

      Mabel stepped straight between them.

      "Oliver," she said, still with that air of suppressed excitement, "we must not have a scene here. The poor dear is too ill. Will you come downstairs, sir?"

      Percy took a step towards the door, and Oliver moved slightly aside. Then the priest stopped, turned and lifted his hand.

      "God bless you!" he said simply, to the muttering figure in the bed. Then he went out, and waited outside the door.

      He could hear a low talking within; then a compassionate murmur from the girl's voice; then Oliver was beside him, trembling all over, as white as ashes, and made a silent gesture as he went past him down the stairs.

      The whole thing seemed to Percy like some incredible dream; it was all so unexpected, so untrue to life. He felt conscious of an enormous shame at the sordidness of the affair, and at the same time of a kind of hopeless recklessness. The worst had happened and the best—that was his sole comfort.

      Oliver pushed a door open, touched a button, and went through into the suddenly lit room, followed by Percy. Still in silence, he pointed to a chair, Percy sat down, and Oliver stood before the fireplace, his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket, slightly turned away.

      Percy's concentrated senses became aware of every detail of the room—the deep springy green carpet, smooth under his feet, the straight hanging thin silk curtains, the half-dozen low tables with a wealth of flowers upon them, and the books that lined the walls. The whole room was heavy with the scent of roses, although the windows were wide, and the night-breeze stirred the curtains continually. It was a woman's room, he told himself. Then he looked at the man's figure, lithe, tense, upright; the dark grey suit not unlike his own, the beautiful curve of the jaw, the clear pale complexion, the thin nose, the protruding curve of idealism over the eyes, and the dark hair. It was a poet's face, he told himself, and the whole personality was a living and vivid one. Then he turned a little and rose as the door opened, and Mabel came in, closing it behind her.

      She came straight across to her husband, and put a hand on his shoulder.

      "Sit down, my dear," she said. "We must talk a little. Please sit down, sir."

      The three sat down, Percy on one side, and the husband and wife on a straight-backed settle opposite.

      The girl began again.

      "This must be arranged at once," she said, "but we must have no tragedy. Oliver, do you understand? You must not make a scene. Leave this to me."

      She spoke with a curious gaiety; and Percy to his astonishment saw that she was quite sincere: there was not the hint of cynicism.

      "Oliver, my dear," she said again, "don't mouth like that! It is all perfectly right. I am going to manage this."

      Percy saw a venomous look directed at him by the man; the girl saw it too, moving her strong humorous eyes from one to the other. She put her hand on his knee.

      "Oliver, attend! Don't look at this gentleman so bitterly. He has done no harm."

      "No harm!" whispered the other.

      "No—no harm in the world. What does it matter what that poor dear upstairs thinks? Now, sir, would you mind telling us why you came here?"

      Percy drew another breath. He had not expected this line.

      "I came here to receive Mrs. Brand back into the Church," he said.

      "And you have done so?"

      "I have done so."

      "Would you mind telling us your name? It makes it so much more convenient."

      Percy hesitated. Then he determined to meet her on her own ground.

      "Certainly. My name is Franklin."

      "Father Franklin?" asked the girl, with just the faintest tinge of mocking emphasis on the first word.

      "Yes. Father Percy Franklin, from Archbishop's House, Westminster," said the priest steadily.

      "Well, then, Father Percy Franklin; can you tell us why you came here? I mean, who sent for you?"

      "Mrs. Brand sent for me."

      "Yes, but by what means?"

      "That I must not say."

      "Oh, very good…. May we know what good comes of being 'received into the Church?'"

      "By being received into the Church, the soul is reconciled to God."

      "Oh!