ught out any solution to his own problem, nor how to
approach Father Murray in behalf of the Bishop.

To Mark Griffin pain of any kind was something new. He had escaped it
chiefly by reason of his clean, healthful life, and through a fear that
made him take every precaution against it. He did not remember ever
having had even a headache before; and, as to the awful pain in his
heart, there never had been a reason for its existence till this moment.

With all the ardor of a strong nature that has found the hidden spring
of human love, Mark Griffin loved Ruth Atheson. She had come into his
life as the realization of an ideal which since boyhood, so he thought,
had been forming in his heart. In one instant she had given that ideal
a reality. For her sake he had forgotten obstacles, had resolved to
overcome them or smash them; but now the greatest of them all insisted
on raising itself between them. Poor, he could still have married her;
rich, it would have been still easier so far as his people were
concerned; but as a grand duchess she was neither rich nor poor. The
blood royal was a bar that Mark knew he could not cross except with
ruin to both; nor was he foolish enough to think that he would be
permitted to cross it even did he so will. Secret agents would take
care of that. There was no spot on earth that could hide this runaway
girl longer than her royal father desired. Mark Griffin would have
blessed the news that Ruth Atheson was really only the daughter of a
beggar, or anything but what he now believed her to be.

Then there was the man Saunders had spoken of, but Mark thought little
of him. Whatever he had been to the girl once, Mark felt that the
officer was out of her life now and that she no longer cared for him.

It was dusk when the weary man reached that part of the bluff road
where the giant tree stood. Tired of body, and with aching heart, he
flung himself into the tall grass wherein he had lain on the day he
first saw her. Lying there, bitter memories and still more bitter
regrets overmastered him as he thought of the weeks just past.

The gray ocean seemed trying---and the thought consoled him a
little--to call him back home; but the great tree whispered to him to
remain. Then Father Murray's face seemed to rise up, pleading for his
sympathy and help. It was strange what a corner the man had made for
himself in Mark's heart; and Mark knew that the priest loved him even
as he, Mark, lo