es of the window to that of the long,
straight folds of the cassock which clothed him. It was hardly the garb
in which a man goes forth to woo! Then he looked at Lady Calmady--she
altogether seductive in her innocence and in her wistful mockery as she
leaned against the jamb of the door.

"You are mistaken, dear Katherine," he said. "It has always been too
late."

"But why--why--if she is free to listen?"

"Because I am not free to speak."

Julius smiled at her. His suavity had returned, and along with it a
dignity of bearing not observable before.

"Let us walk," he said. And then:--"After all I have given you a very
mutilated account of this matter. Soon after I took orders, before I
had ever seen the very noble, to me perfect, woman who unconsciously
revealed to me the glory of human love, I had dedicated my life, and
all my powers--poor enough, I fear--of mind and body to the service of
the Church. I was ambitious in those days. Ambition is dead, killed by
the knowledge of my own shortcomings. I have proved an unprofitable
servant--for which may God in His great mercy forgive me. But, while my
faith in myself has withered, my faith in Him has come to maturity. I
have learned to think very differently on many subjects, and to
perceive that our Heavenly Father's purposes regarding us are more
generous, more far-reaching, more august, than in my youthful ignorance
I had ever dreamed. All things are lawful in His sight. Nothing is
common or unclean--if we have once rightly apprehended Him, and He
dwells in us. And yet--yet, a vow once made is binding. We may not do
evil to gain however great a good."

Katherine listened in silence. The words came with the power of
immutable conviction. She could not believe, yet she was glad to have
him believe.

"And that vow precludes marriage?" she said at last.

"It does," Julius answered.

For a time they paced again in silence. Then Lady Calmady spoke, a
delicate intimacy and affection in her manner, while once more, for a
moment, she let her hand rest on his arm.

"So Brockhurst keeps you--I keep you, dear Julius, to the last?"

"Yes, if you will, to the very last."

"I am thankful for that," she said. "You must forgive me if in the past
I have been inconsiderate at times. I am afraid the constant struggle,
which certain circumstances of necessity create, tends to make me harsh
and imperious. I carry a trouble, which calls aloud for redress,
forever in my arms. Th