of the self-control which he had hitherto practiced. If
she consented to devote her life to him, he might accept the cruel
sacrifice. Rather than do this, he would keep away from her, for her
dear sake--no matter what he might suffer, or whom he might offend.

Imagine any human being, out of a lunatic asylum, talking in this
way. Shall I own to you, my reverend colleague, how this curious
self-exposure struck me? As I listened to Romayne, I felt grateful to
the famous Council which definitely forbade the priests of the Catholic
Church to marry. _We_ might otherwise have been morally enervated by
the weakness which degrades Romayne--and priests might have become
instruments in the hands of women.

But you will be anxious to hear what Penrose did under the
circumstances. For the moment, I can tell you this, he startled me.

Instead of seizing the opportunity, and directing Romayne's mind to the
consolations of religion, Penrose actually encouraged him to reconsider
his decision. All the weakness of my poor little Arthur's character
showed itself in his next words.

He said to Romayne: "It may be wrong in me to speak to you as freely
as I wish to speak. But you have so generously admitted me to your
confidence--you have been so considerate and so kind toward me--that I
feel an interest in your happiness, which perhaps makes me over bold.
Are you very sure that some such entire change in your life as your
marriage might not end in delivering you from your burden? If such a
thing could be, is it wrong to suppose that your wife's good influence
over you might be the means of making your marriage a happy one? I
must not presume to offer an opinion on such a subject. It is only my
gratitude, my true attachment to you that ventures to put the question.
Are you conscious of having given this matter--so serious a matter for
you--sufficient thought?"

Make your mind easy, reverend sir! Romayne's answer set everything
right.

He said: "I have thought of it till I could think no longer. I still
believe that sweet woman might control the torment of the voice. But
could she deliver me from the remorse perpetually gnawing at my heart? I
feel as murderers feel. In taking another man's life--a man who had not
even injured me!--I have committed the one unatonable and unpardonable
sin. Can any human creature's influence make me forget that? No more of
it--no more. Come! Let us take refuge in our books."

Those words touched Penrose