forth again some half-dozen times, before he
emerged from the chapel door. In her present humour she did not want
him, yet she resented his abstraction. The physician of the soul, like
the physician of the body, appeared to her lamentably devoid of power
to sustain and give comfort at the present juncture.

This, it so happened, was one of those days when the mystic joy of his
priestly office held Julius March forcibly. He had ministered to
others, and his own soul was satisfied. His expression was exalted, his
short-sighted eyes were alive with inward light. Tired and worn, there
was still a remarkable suavity in his bearing. He had come forth from
the holy of holies, and the vision beheld there dwelt with him yet.

Meanwhile, brooding storm sat on Katherine's brow, on her lips, dwelt
in her every movement. And something of this Julius perceived, for his
devotion to her was intact, as was his self-abnegation. Throughout all
these years he had never sought to approach her more closely. His
attitude had remained as delicately scrupulous, untouched by
worldliness, or by the baser part of passion, as in the first hour of
the discovery of his love. Her near presence gave him exquisite
pleasure; but, save when she needed his assistance in some practical
matter, he refused to indulge himself by passing much time in her
society. Abstinence still remained his rule of life. But just now,
strong with the mystic strength of his late ministrations, and
perceiving her troubled state, he permitted himself to remain and pace
beside her.

"You have been out all day?" Katherine said.

"Yes, I stayed on to the end with Rebecca Light. They sent for me early
this morning. She passed away very peacefully in that little attic at
the new lodge looking out into the green heart of the woods."

"Ah! It's simple enough to die," Katherine said, "being old. The
difficult thing is to live, being still young."

"Has my absence been inconvenient? Have you wanted me?" Julius
asked.--Those quiet hours spent in the humble death-chamber suddenly
appeared to him as an act of possible selfishness.

"Oh no!" she answered bitterly. "Why should I want you? Have I not sent
Roger and Mary away? Am I not secretly glad dear Marie de Mirancourt is
just sufficiently poorly to remain in her room? When the real need
comes--one learns that among all the other merciless lessons--one is
best by oneself."

For a while, only the whisper of Lady Calmady's skirts, t