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More delicate, but also more distressing, was a letter from Father Dan,
saying he had been forbidden my husband's house and therefore could not
visit me, but having heard an angel's whisper of the sweet joy that was
coming to me, he prayed the Lord and His Holy Mother to carry me safely
through.
"I have said a rosary for you every day since you were here, my dear
child, that you might be saved from a great temptation. And now I know
you have been, and the sacrament of your holy marriage has fulfilled its
mission, as I always knew it would. So God bless you, my daughter, and
keep you pure and fit for eternal union with that blessed saint, your
mother, whom the Lord has made His own."
More than ever after this letter I felt that I must fly from my
husband's house, but, thinking of Alma, my wounded pride, my outraged
vanity (as I say, the _woman_ in me), would not let me go.
Three weeks passed.
The pavilion had been built and was being hung with gaily painted
bannerets to give the effect of the Colosseum as seen at sunset.


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