Henry's distinguished face grew pinched-looking; it cut like a knife to
have his vague unadmitted fears put into words.

"We had no discussions of any kind. She was particularly sweet, and
spent nearly the whole evening with me, as you know. Is it something
about her husband, do you think, which is troubling her? But it cannot
be that, because in her letter of two days ago she said the proceedings
had been started and she would be free perhaps by Christmastime, as all
was being hurried through."

Moravia gave an exclamation of surprise.

"Sabine is certainly very strange. Can you believe it? She has never
mentioned the matter to me since we returned, and once when I spoke of
it, she put the subject aside. She did not 'wish to remember it,' she
said."

"It is evidently that, then, and we must have patience with the dear
little girl. The husband must have been an unmitigated wretch to have
left such a deep scar upon her life."

"But she never saw him from the day after she was married!" Moravia
exclaimed; and then pulled herself up short, glancing at Henry
furtively. What had Sabine told him? Probably no more than she had told
her--she felt the subject was dangerous ground, and it would be wiser to
avoid further discussion upon the matter. So she remarked casually:

"No, after all, I do not believe it has anything to do with the husband;
it is just a mood. She has always had moods for years. I know she is
looking forward awfully to our all going to her for Christmas. Then you
will be able to clear away all your clouds."

But this conversation left Henry very troubled, and Pere Anselme's words
about the cinders still being red kept recurring to him with increasing
pain.

Sabine had been at Heronac for ten days when the old priest got back to
his flock. It was toward the end of November, and the weather was one
raging storm of rain and wind. The surf boiled round the base of the
Castle and the waves rose as giant foes ready to attack. It comforted
the mistress of it to stand upon the causeway bridge and get soaking
wet--or to sit in one of the mullioned windows of her great sitting-room
and watch the angry water thundering beneath. And here the Pere Anselme
found her on the morning after his return.

She rose quickly in gladness to meet him, and they sat down together
again.

She spoke her sympathy for this bereavement which had caused his
absence, but he said with grave peace:

"She is well, my sister--a m