hate to pain you," she said, "but cannot you see that it is
impossible? I may be wrong; but I think her heart is so given to our
Saviour that there is no love of that sort left."

"Ah, how can you say that?" he cried; "the love of the Saviour does not
hinder earthly love; it purifies and transfigures it."

"Yes," said Mary gravely, "it is often so--but the love of the true
spouse of Christ is different. That leaves no room for an earthly
bridegroom."

Mr. Buxton was silent a moment or two.

"You mean it is the love of the consecrated soul?"

Mary bowed her head. "But I cannot be sure," she added.

"Then what shall I do?" he said again, almost piteously; and Mary could
see even in the faint moonlight that his pleasant face was all broken up
and quivering. She laid her hand gently on his arm, and her rings
flashed.

"You must be very patient," she said, "very full of deference--and grave.
You must not be ardent nor impetuous, but speak slowly and reverently to
her, but at no great length; be plain with her; do not look in her face,
and do not show anxiety or despair or hope. You need not fear that your
love will not be plain to her. Indeed, I think she knows it already."

"Why, I have not----" he began.

"I know you have not spoken to her; but I saw that she only looked at you
once during supper, and that was when your face was turned from her; she
does not wish to look you in the eyes."

"Ah, she hates me," he sighed.

"Do not be foolish," said Mary, "she honours you, and loves you, and is
grieved for your grief; but I do not think she will marry you."

"And when shall I speak?" he asked.

"You must wait; God will make the opportunity--in any case. You must not
attempt to make it. That would terrify her."

"And you will speak for me."

Mary smiled at him.

"Dear friend," she said, "sometimes I think you do not know us at all. Do
you not see that Isabel is greater than all that? What she knows, she
knows. I could tell her nothing."

* * * *

The days passed on; the days of the last month of the Norrises' stay at
Stanfield. Half-way through the month came the news of the Oxford
executions.

"Ah! listen to this," cried Mr. Buxton, coming out to them one evening in
the garden with a letter in his hand. "'Humphrey Prichard,'" he read,
"'made a good end. He protested he was condemned for the Catholic Faith;
that he willingly died for it; that he was a Cathol