almost sorrow which he felt might be
offensive to his hostess, while she told him in the fewest possible
words of her marriage to Christian and separation from him.

There was one thought in the old priest's mind, which had never, at
anytime, occurred to Mrs. Costello--Christian had been destined for the
Church. He had taken no vows, certainly; but for years he had been
trained with that object, and at one time his vocation had seemed
remarkably clear and strong--his marriage, at all, therefore, seemed to
add enormity to his other guilt.

And yet there was a sort of lurking tenderness for the boy who had been
the favourite pupil of the mission--who had seemed to have such natural
aptitude for good of all sorts, until suddenly the mask dropped off, and
the good turned to evil. It might be that his misdoings were but the
result of a temporary possession of the evil one himself, and that at
last all might have been well.

Mrs. Costello spoke more fully as she saw how deep was the listener's
interest in her story; yet, when she came near the end, she almost
shrank from the task. The sacred tenderness which belongs to the dead,
had fallen like a veil over all her last memories of her husband; and
now she wanted to share them with this good old man, whose teaching had
made them what they were.

More than once she had to stop, to wait till her voice was less
unsteady, but she went on to the very end--even to that strange burial
in the waters. When all was told, there was a silence in the room;
Father Paul had wet eyes, unseen in the dusk, and he did not care to
speak; Lucia, whose tears were very ready of late; was crying quietly,
with her head lying against the end of the sofa, while Mrs. Costello,
leaning back on her cushions, waited quietly till the painful throbbing
of her heart should subside.

At last Lucia rose and stole out of the room. She went to her own, and
lay down on her bed still crying, though she could hardly tell why. Her
trouble about the letter still haunted and worried her, and her spirit
was so broken that she was like a sick child, neither able nor anxious
to command herself.

Meanwhile the lamp had been brought into the sitting-room, and the two
elder people had recommenced their conversation. It was of a less
agitating kind now, but the subject was not very different, and both
were deeply interested, so that time passed on quickly, and the evening
was gone before they were aware. When Father Pau