"At first, I could not quite see why I fell in love with her so soon,
after having escaped the pleasant infliction for so long a time. Now I
think I know. Do you remember ever having met me before?"

"I have no such recollection."

"Did you know some people named Meechamp?"

"I knew a family of that name in London. They were parishioners of
mine during my short pastorate there, before I became a Catholic."

"Then you did meet me before. I was present at your farewell sermon.
I was visiting the Meechamps at the time. That sermon made a lifelong
impression on me. After hearing it I was worried about my own state of
mind, for I had given up the practice of the very religion you were
sacrificing your prospects to embrace. I went in to your study to see
you that morning."

"Ah, now I remember," exclaimed the priest. "So it was you who came to
see me?"

"Yes; and I have never forgotten your last words to me: 'Remember this:
the door we are passing through this morning, going in opposite
directions, is never locked.' But let that pass. I want to come
quickly to something else. That morning a little girl sat all alone in
a pew near your study door. She spoke to me as I came out: 'Is he
crying?' she asked. I answered, 'I'm afraid, my dear, that he is.'
She bristled at once: 'Did you make him cry?' I had to smile at her
tone of proprietorship in you. 'No, my dear,' I said, 'I never make
good people cry.' That made us friends. 'Do you love him?' I asked.
'I do. I like you, too, because you think he is good. Those others
only worried him.' Father, I haven't quoted her exact words, of
course, but the substance. I kissed her. The last I saw of your
church in London included that little girl. I looked back from the
door as I was going out; she was kneeling on the pew seat waving her
hand after me. I never forgot the face--nor the kiss. Now I know I
have met her again--a woman. Quite by accident I saw, at Killimaga, a
picture of you and that little girl taken years ago in London together.
Both have changed; it was only last night that memory proved true and
the faces in the picture identified themselves. Do you understand
now?"

"I do," said Father Murray. "It is a remarkable story. I wonder if
Ruth remembers you. She told me all about the 'nice young gentleman'
when I came out of the study to take her home."

"Then you knew her family well?"

"Her mother was my sister."

"Your sister!"

"