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If I could neither divorce my husband
under any circumstances without breaking a sacrament of the Church, nor
love Martin and be loved by him without breaking the heart of his
mother, where was I?
I intended to go home the following morning; I was to meet Martin the
following night. What was I to say? What was I to do?
All day long these questions haunted me and I could find no answers. But
towards evening I took my troubles where I had often taken them--to
Father Dan.


SIXTY-SECOND CHAPTER

The door of the Presbytery was opened by Father Dan's Irish housekeeper,
a good old soul whose attitude to her master was that of a "moithered"
mother to a wilful child.
All the way up the narrow staircase to his room, she grumbled about his
reverence. Unless he was sickening for the scarlet fever she didn't know
in her seven sinses what was a-matter with him these days. He was as
white as a ghost, and as thin as a shadder, and no wonder neither, for
he didn't eat enough to keep body and soul together.


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