nted the intrusion of alien
sorrow into his life. He hated sorrow. Now for Joan's sake he made
himself a part of it. If Joan must endure it, so could he. But he
sickened at the need.

He was doomed to a tragic, unforgettable hour in the churchyard when
the voice of the old minister, conventional in its sadness, droned
wearily into his very soul:

"Ashes to ashes . . . dust to dust." . . . The clock turned back and
he stood in a church by an Irish hill. White and terrified, Kenny
remembered what in its vivid agony of detail he would fain have
forgotten. Why, now, when Joan was slipping into his life, a lonely
waif of a girl in a black gown he hated, why must he think years back
to that soft-eyed Irish girl and Brian? Had he broken his pledge to
her, driving her son away with a passion of self no less definite for
its careless gayety? Eileen's son! Eileen's son! Sadness tore at
Kenny's heart and twitched at his dry, white lips. Ah! why must he
live again that agonizing day when Eileen had gone out of his life
forever?

The voice went on, funereal, gentle. Kenny's eyes blurred. Sweat came
coldly forth upon his forehead. At the first thud of earth he choked
and turned away, the pain unbearable. Adam Craig had driven his nephew
away . . . with a passion of self . . . and he had died with mercy at
his bedside, not love. A passionate hunger for Brian stirred in
Kenny's heart and made him lonely. Ah! how farcical his penance! Some
nameless thing of self linked him to Adam Craig. The thought was
horrible. Some nameless thing linked each mournful detail of to-day to
the tragedy of long ago. . . . And then mercifully the thing became a
blur of November wind, a monotonous voice of sorrow, the thud of earth
and the end.

The coach toiled up the hill and Kenny, with Joan in his arms, forgot.

"Mavourneen," he said wistfully, "let's slip away, you and I, to the
cabin in the pines. I want you to myself. And there in the house--"
he looked away. The thought of the old house, bleak and desolate at
its best and haunted now by the sense of a presence gone, oppressed him.

Joan nodded.

"And not that dress!" begged Kenny with a shudder.

She laid her cheek against his shoulder.

"It was just for to-day, Kenny. Hannah thought it best." Her soft
eyes, curiously child-like with the shadow of sadness in them, appealed
to him for understanding. He kissed her, marveling afresh at the
tender miracle of peace