it explain
that suffering so clearly marked on his face? To which she must add, as
part of the return to be made for all his goodness!

Her pity for him grew, and prompted deeper tenderness; and how could she
know, who had been without experience, that pity is often akin to love?

The heavenly days flew by like swift swallows. September came with its
splendid warnings of change. The trees were suddenly bordered in gold
yellow and dotted with fire-red. The nights began to be haunted by cool
winds. Louis packed his trunk early in the month. His long vacations had
ended, ordination was at hand, and his life-work would begin in the
month of October.

The household went down to the city for the grand ceremony. Mona and her
baby remained in the city then, while the others returned to the lake
for a final week, Anne with perfect content, Honora in calmness of
spirit, but also in dread for Arthur's sake. He seemed to have no
misgivings. Her determination continued, and the situation therefore
remained as clear as the cold September mornings. Yet some tie bound
them, elusive, beyond description, but so much in evidence that every
incident of the waiting time seemed to strengthen it. Delay did not
abate her resolution, but it favored his hope.

"Were you disturbed by the revelations of Mrs. Curran?" he said as they
sat, for the last time indeed, on the terrace so fatal to Lord
Constantine. Anne read the morning newspaper in the shadow of the grove
behind them, with Judy to comment on the news. The day, perfect,
comfortable, without the perfume of August, sparkled with the snap of
September.

"My curiosity was disturbed," she admitted frankly, and her heart beat,
for the terrible hour had come. "I felt that your life had some sadness
and mystery in it, but it was a surprise to hear that you were not Anne
Dillon's long-lost son."

"That was pure guess-work on Colette's part, you know. She's a born
devil, if there are such things among us humans. I'll tell you about her
some time. Then the fact of my wife's existence did not disturb you at
all?"

"On the contrary, it soothed me, I think," she said with a blush.

"I know why. Well, it will take my story to explain hers. She told the
truth in part, poor Colette. Once I had a wife, before I became Anne
Dillon's son. Will it be too painful for you to hear the story? It is
mournful. To no one have I ever told it complete; in fact I could not,
only to you. How I have burned to t