f as a surgeon would shrink from operating on his own father.
Mark's heart went out to the weeping man beside him.

But his own sorrow Mark resolved to keep to himself yet a little while.
He was not ready to think out his own case. The sweet, compelling face
of Ruth Atheson rose up before him to plead for herself. Who was she,
this girl of mystery? His half-promised wife? A runaway duchess
pledged to another man? A priest's--God! that was too much. Mark
clenched his hands to stifle a groan. Then he thought of Father
Murray. Good and holy and pure he had seemed to be, a man among men, a
priest above all. Surely there was an explanation somewhere. And he
hesitated no longer to accede to the request of the Bishop who still,
Mark felt, believed in his friend, and was hoping against hope for him.

"Here, Mr. Griffin, is my stop. You have been silent for fifteen
minutes." The Bishop's voice was sad, as if Mark had refused to help.

"Was I silent so long? I did not know. There is something I cannot
tell you yet that may bring you consolation. Some day I will tell you.
In the meantime, trust me. I see no way now by which I can fully
justify your faith in my efforts, but I will try. I promise you that I
will try."

So they parted, and Mark was driven back to Sihasset alone.

The Bishop prayed longer--much longer--than usual before he left the
little church to join the priests who had gathered in the rectory after
the ceremony.

CHAPTER X

AT THE MYSTERY TREE

All next day Mark Griffin wandered about brooding. Father Murray had
returned to his old place in his thoughts. Distress had bred sympathy
between the two, and instinctively Mark looked upon the priest as a
friend; and, as a friend, he had cast doubt from his mind. There was
an appointment to fill at Killimaga in the afternoon, an appointment to
which Mark had looked forward with much joy; but he remembered the
coldness of Ruth when he saw her in the church, and felt that he was
not equal to meeting her, much as he longed to be in her presence. So
he sent a note pleading sickness. It was not a lie, for there was a
dull pain in both head and heart.

All the afternoon he walked along the bluff road, studiously avoiding
Saunders who had seemed desirous of accompanying him, for Mark wanted
to be alone. Taking no note of the distance, he walked on for miles.
It was already late in the afternoon when he turned to go back, yet he
had not tho