Saunders whistled again. "It beats me, Father," he said. "I own up. They know more than detectives."

At this moment Mark came striding over the lawn.

"Hello, Saunders," he called. "I've been looking for you. Now that I've got you, I might as well have it out and be done with it. Ruth wants you to stay here. She wants to make you one of us. We are going to Ireland for six months, and then we're coming back to live here part of each year. We want you to take charge of Killimaga. I've bought it. A good salary—no quarreling or dickering about it. What do you say?"

"This is certainly a surprise," said Saunders, winking at the Padre. "Have you room for an extra family?"

"You're married?"

"Very much so."

"The bigger the family the better. But," he added, as an afterthought, "I'll have to tell Ruth, or she'll be trying to marry you off. You'll come, then?"

"Yes," said Saunders, "I guess I'll take you up on that."

Mark shook hands with him. "Done. You're a good old chap. I thought you would stay."

Then, turning to Father Murray, Mark spoke more seriously. "Don't you think, Father, that it is almost time to meet the Bishop? He is coming on the next train, you know." He paused and seemed momentarily embarrassed. Then he straightened up and frankly voiced his thought. "Before he comes, will you not step into the church with me? I have a lot of things to straighten out."

The priest stood up and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Do you mean that, my boy?"

"I do," replied Mark. "I told you in Washington that I never passed an open church door that my mind did not conjure up a beckoning hand behind it, and that I knew that some day I should see my mother's face behind the hand. I have seen the face. It was imagination, perhaps—in fact, I know it must have been—but it was mother's face—and I am coming home."

The last words were spoken softly, reverently, and together the priest and the penitent entered the church.



CHAPTER XXII

RUTH'S CONFESSION

Late that afternoon Mark sat alone in the great library at Killimaga, his head thrown back, his hands grasping the top of his chair. His thoughts were of the future, and he did not hear the light footsteps behind him. Then—two soft arms stole lightly around his neck, and Ruth's beautiful head was bowed until her lips touched his forehead. It was a kiss of benediction, speaking of things too holy for words.

He covered her hands with his own. "Ruth." The tones breathed a world of love.

"I am so happy," she murmured.

He started to rise, but one small hand, escaping from his grasp, rested on his head and held him firmly.

"I have a great deal to tell you, Mark. But first I want you to know how happy I am that you have come back to Mother Church. I have been praying so hard, Mark, and I should have been miserable had you refused to return. Our union would never have been perfect without full harmony of thought, and we might have drifted apart. But I am happy now." Lightly her fingers stroked his brow and twined among his curls.

He arose and, clasping her hands in both his own, he gazed down into her eyes.

"And I too am happy, dear one. You have brought me two blessings: I have found not only love, but peace at last after many years." Tenderly he raised her hands to his lips. "But come, dear; it is too glorious a day to remain in the house. Shall we go outside?"

It was but a moment till she returned ready for a walk, and together they sauntered toward the bluff, where she seated herself on a great rock. Sitting at her feet, his head resting against the rock, his hand raised to clasp hers, he was content. For a while they sat in silence, gazing far out over the sea into the glory of the sunset. At last she loosed her hand from his grasp and rested it lightly on his head.

"Mark, dear, you know that there are to be no secrets between us two now, don't you?"

He looked up and answered promptly. "Not one—not a single one, for all the days of the future, my darling. But," he added, "I have none that are unrevealed."

"I am not so fortunate, dear. I have a great one, and now I am going to tell it all to you."

"But—"

"No, let me do all the talking until you hear it to the end, and let me tell it in my own way."

"All right," and he pressed her hand lovingly.

"I never knew my father, Mark," she went on, "and yet I heard of his death only a short time ago—in Washington. His name was not 'Atheson.' He was a very great personage, no less than the Grand Duke of Ecknor, Prince Etkar."

Mark started, but Ruth put up her hand. "You promised. Let me go on."

"My mother married my father, who then called himself Edgar Atheson, in London. He was the younger son of the then reigning Grand Duke and had left home for political reasons, expecting never to return. But his father and his elder brother were both killed by a bomb a few days after his marriage to my mother. He returned to Ecknor, and she went with him. In six months he had married, legally but not legitimately, a princess of the protecting kingdom. Under the laws of the kingdom the princess was his legal mate, the Grand Duchess of Ecknor, but my mother was his wife before God and the Church. The Grand Duke gave her a large fortune, and she had a beautiful home near the palace. Everyone knew and pitied her, but they respected her. The Grand Duke soon ceased to care for his morganatic wife, but he never deserted her. Then, a year after the court marriage, I was born. It was given out that the Grand Duchess had also given birth to a daughter, Carlotta."

Mark patted her hand, but kept his promise of silence. Ruth went on.

"After that, the Grand Duke seemed to lose all interest in his English wife. My mother was very unhappy and wanted to return to England. She finally escaped, with me, in a closed carriage. My uncle met us as we crossed the frontier, and it was only then that mother understood why her escape had been so easy—the Grand Duke had wanted her away. She saw England only to die heart-broken, for she had loved her husband devotedly. My uncle kept me with him until he became a Catholic and went to Rome to study. Then I was sent to school in Europe. Later I came to America. But I had many friends in Europe and visited them frequently. It was on one of these visits that I met Carlotta. She knew, and we became fast friends, as well as sisters."

"But not full sisters," Mark said, thinking that the story was over.

"Wait," cautioned Ruth. "There is more. Mother died thinking I was her only child. But two girls were born to mother, and a dead child to the Grand Duchess. Mother never saw one of her babies. She never knew. And it was years before the Grand Duchess learned that her child had died. Carlotta was my full sister. She was stolen to replace the dead child. Now do you see?"

"But how did you come to know all this?" asked Mark.

"Carlotta told me. The Grand Duchess never seemed to care for Carlotta; Carlotta's old nurse resented this and one day, after a worse storm than usual, told Carlotta that the Duchess was not her mother. There was a terrible scene in the palace. The old nurse was all but banished, but Carlotta saved her. She was sworn to secrecy by the Grand Duke. The Duchess died later as a result of the affair—of apoplexy. Then the nurse disappeared, no one knew how or where, but not before she had told Carlotta all about the twins that were born to the Grand Duke's English wife. Carlotta had the secret and ruled her father with it. She was allowed her own way, and it was not always a good way. Her last escapade was the one you already know. Poor girl, she was as good as a court would let her be; and here in Sihasset she repented. But she believed in her lover, which I never did. I knew his reputation, but she would not listen to a word against him. Now you have the whole story."

"And you," Mark managed to say, "you are the real Grand Duchess now. What a misfortune!"

"No," she replied, "I could never make such a claim; for my mother's marriage was never admitted by the court as a royal marriage. It was considered morganatic. Her children were legitimate, but could never succeed to the throne."

"But, even so," insisted Mark, "you are the Grand Duchess."

Ruth put her hand gently over his mouth. "I am to be more than a grand duchess, dear. I am to be your wife—to-morrow."

The sun was below the horizon now. For a while longer they watched its banners of flaming red and yellow flung across the sky. Then, hand in hand, they retraced their steps to Killimaga, where Mark left her with a whispered, "Sweet dreams, dear," and went his way toward the rectory.

As he sauntered aimlessly along, his thoughts were all of her. Never once had she lectured him on religious matters, yet she was splendidly sincere, and her faith of the greatest. And she had been praying for him all the time! Yet what need of speech? Her very self, her every action, her nice sense of right, were greater than any sermon he had ever heard from mortal lips. She was a woman whom any man might well love—and honor.

Reluctantly Mark at last sought the rectory, where the Bishop and Monsignore awaited him. And almost desperately he sought to evade Ann, whose dinner had been kept waiting. Seeing the attempt was vain, he threw up his hands.

"Both hands up, Ann. I claim the protection of the Bishop."

And Ann, not displeased, went on her way.



CHAPTER XXIII

CHARRED WOOD

All Sihasset was in the little church next morning. Mrs. O'Leary, grand even in her widow's weeds, had a front seat before St. Joseph's altar, where she could see everything, and crowded into the pew with her were all the little O'Leary's. The old lady had had some misgivings about attending a wedding so soon after her husband's death; but the misgivings were finally banished for—as she confided to the eldest of her grandchildren—"Sure, 'tis Miss Ruth who is gettin' married, and himself would want me there."

So Mrs. O'Leary arrived two hours ahead of time and secured her point of vantage. Under more ordinary circumstances she would have had a hard time to quiet the energetic youngsters, but now they had enough to occupy their minds, for when had they seen such gorgeous flowers, such wonderful ferns? The sanctuary was massed with them, the little altar standing out in vivid relief against their greenness. And then there was that wonderful strip of white canvas down the center aisle, that white strip that was so tempting to little feet, but which must not be stepped upon. And what were those kneeling benches for—the two draped in white—one on each side of the open gateway, just inside the communion railing? And over on the left was a platform bearing a great chair, and over it hung a canopy—only the children didn't call it so—of purple.

They had never seen the sanctuary look like this before! And then their attention was attracted by the strains of the new organ, hurriedly bought for the occasion. The choir from the city was practising before the service. Truly, the little O'Learys were glad that "Grandma" had ignored their cries and had insisted on coming early. And what would Miss Wilson say at not being permitted to play for the wedding? That thought alone was enough to keep the little minds busy.

Outside, Main Street was decorated with flags; and the people, keenly expectant, were watching for His Excellency. Never before had they known the Minister of a Kingdom to step within the boundaries of Sihasset. Bishops had been seen there before, but Ministers were new, and international weddings had never come nearer than the great metropolis. Barons, too, were scarce, and who loves a baron—provided he is not an American "baron"—any more than the simon-pure Yankee? So the decorations were up by order of the selectmen, and the merchants vied with one another in making their own ornamentations as gorgeous as possible. And the people—with the sole exception of the O'Learys—waited outside, each anxious to catch the first glimpse of the great man who to-day was to honor them by his presence.

His Excellency arrived at last—in a low, swift-running automobile, the chauffeur of which seemed to know the road very well, and seemed also to be acquainted with every turn in the village. There was no one to notice that, when he passed the gates of Killimaga, he laughed quietly.

At Killimaga the gardens had never looked lovelier. Autumn was kind and contributed almost a summer sun.

Father Murray tore himself away from his guests at the rectory—and who should those guests be but the old friends who had for so long neglected him—to run up before the ceremony to see Ruth. She was already arrayed in her bridal finery, but she rushed out to meet him when she heard that he had arrived.

Holding her off at arm's length, he looked at her and said, "I think, dearie, that I am going to die very soon."

"Die! Why, you old love, how could you get that notion into your head?"

"Because," he answered, "I am so very, very happy—too happy. I have had a great deal more, dear, than I was ever entitled to in this life. When I sent you away and went to Rome, I feared I had given you up forever; and, behold, here I am, with the silver hairs coming—a priest with all the consolations that a priest can have, and yet I have a daughter, too." And smiling in his own winning way, he added, "And such a daughter!—even if she is really only a niece."

Ruth laughed softly and drew his arm around her as she laid hers lightly on his shoulder.

"I am afraid," she said, "that the daughter never deserved the kind of a daddy she has had—the only one she ever knew. If Carlotta—"

But Father Murray interrupted hastily as he observed the touch of sorrow in her voice.

"Do not think of her to-day, my dear," he said. "Put her out of your mind. You have prayed for her, and so have I. It is all we can do, and we can always pray. Forget her until to-morrow and then—never forget."

Seeing that the sad look had not been entirely chased away, he added, cheerfully:

"Now, before I go back to the Bishop and my friends, I want to ask you one serious question."

Ruth looked up with sudden interest. "As many as you like."

He took her hands in his and looked keenly into her face. "It was always a mystery to me," he said, "how you and Mark fell in love with each other so promptly. He saw you coming out of the tree-door, then he met you once or twice, and after that he lost his head; and you—minx!—you lost yours. I have often heard of love at first sight, but this is the only example I have ever seen of it. Explain, please, for the ways of youth are strange, and even yet—old as I am—I have not learned to understand them."

"Why," she answered, "I had met him long before. Don't you remember that day in London when you said good-bye to your congregation? Have you forgotten that Ruth was there?" she asked archly, half reproachfully.

Father Murray's eyes lit up. "You remembered, then! Yes, yes. He told me of the little girl. And you really remembered?"

He was standing in front of her now, holding her at arm's length and looking straight at her glowing face.

"I remembered. I knew that day that you were suffering, and though I was only eight years old, I cried for you while I was sitting all alone in the big pew. He passed me, and smiled. When he came out again, he saw that I was still crying. I asked him about you, and he said something that went straight to my little girl's heart: he praised you. To soothe me, he took me in his arms and—well," she added blushing, "he kissed me. I fell in love with that big man right there; I never lost the memory of him or that kiss. When I saw him here at Killimaga, and when he told me what I wanted so badly to hear, I knew he was worth waiting for. If you want to know more about the ways of youth, daddy dear," she continued saucily, "only know that I would have waited a century—if I could have lived so long, and if I had had to wait."

"Tell me, Ruth, what shall I give you? I alone have sent nothing," he said. "'Ask and you shall receive,' you know. What is to be my poor offering for the wedding feast?"

"Will you promise beforehand to grant it?"

"If I can, dear, I will grant it."

"Goody!" she cried, in almost childish glee. Then she stepped lightly away, her hands behind her, and, like a mischievous child, she leaned slightly forward as she spoke. "Here it is: Wear your purple to-day—I like it."

"But, child, I don't want—"

One white hand was raised in protest, and he seemed once more to be in London, a tiny figure before him, the blue eyes open wide and the graceful head nodding emphasis to each word:

"You—promised—uncle."

Even so the child had spoken. Monsignore was learning more of the ways of youth. He sighed.

"All right," he granted, "I will wear the purple."

"Thank you—and God bless you, Monsignore."

"And God bless you, my child." Monsignore lifted his hand in blessing, then hurried to the church to prepare for the Mass.

The church was already crowded as he stepped from the sanctuary, clad in rich white vestments—a present from Mark. Leaning on the arm of the minister, Ruth came slowly up the aisle, her filmy lace veil flowing softly around her and far down over the delicate satin of her sweeping train. As they neared the altar where Monsignore stood waiting, her maids, friends who had come hurriedly from England, stepped aside and Mark took his stand at her right. Her small hand trembled in his as the words of the nuptial service were pronounced, but her eyes spoke volumes of love and trust. Then each sought a prie-dieu and knelt to pray, while the service went on and from the choir rang the beautiful tones of the Messe Solennelle. The voices softened with the Agnus Dei, then faded into silence. Together the bride and groom approached the linen cloth held by the surpliced altar boys, and together they received the greatest of sacraments, then returned to their prie-dieux.

The service over, Mark arose and joined his wife. Slowly the bridal party went down the aisle and out to the waiting car which bore them swiftly to Killimaga. When the time came to part, Monsignore and his guests accompanied Baron Griffin and his bride to the train, then once more sought the quiet of the ivy-clad rectory.

But even the most pleasant of days must end. The happy group broke up as the guests departed, and at last Monsignore sat alone before the blazing fire which Ann had builded in the study, for the chill of the autumn evening was in the air.

Mark and Ruth by this time were in Boston making ready to sail on the morrow. Ann had suggested a "cup of tay because you're tired, Monsignore," but Monsignore wanted to be alone with his thoughts and would have none of it. He wondered why he was not lonely, for he had dreaded the hours to follow his good-bye to Mark and Ruth. But lonely he was not, for he was happy. It seemed to him as if some mysterious and forbidding gates had been suddenly flung open, and a flood of happiness loosed upon him. His last guest of the day had been the Bishop, who had let all go before him that for an hour he might be alone with the friend who once had had all his love and all his trust. Now both love and trust were again his friend's, and the Bishop's pleasure was even greater than the priest's.

"I would gladly give you both cross and crozier if I could, my friend," His Lordship had said.

"I will gladly take what I can of your cross, my dear Bishop," Father Murray had answered, very simply; "but I am happier to see the crozier in more worthy hands. God has been good to me. I am satisfied."

"You will come to the cathedral as of old?" Though voiced as a request, the words were a command.

"Let me stay here, I beg of you," pleaded the priest. "I am no longer young—"

"Age is not counted by years."

"I love it here and—"

But the Bishop raised his hand, and the priest was silent.

"You may stay for the present. That much I grant you."

But Monsignore's heart was too full for long silence, his fears too great. He spoke hurriedly, pleadingly.

"Will you not protect me?"

"I may not be able to protect you."

"I am tired, my dear Bishop—tired, but contented. Here is rest, and peace. And when they come back, you know I want to be near them. Let me stay."

"Yes, I know," said the Bishop, and his voice forbade further plea. "You may stay—for the present."

Then the Bishop, too, had left; and now Monsignore was alone. He sat in his great armchair and watched the flames of the fire dancing and playing before him. He marveled at his pleasure in them, as he marveled at his pleasure now in the little things that were for the future to be the great things for him. Before his vision rose the cathedral he had builded, with its twin towers piercing the sky; but somehow the new organ of the little church gave him greater pleasure. "The people were so happy about having it," he had that day explained to Father Darcy. His wonderful seminary on the heights had once seemed the greatest thing in the world to him, but now it was less than the marble altars Mark had ordered for the little church only yesterday. He remembered the crowds that had hung upon his eloquence in the city, but now he knew that his very soul was mirrored in the simple discourses to his poor in Sihasset.

"I couldn't go back," he said to the burning log, "I couldn't be great again when I know how much true happiness there is in being little."

Then he lifted his eyes to where, from above the fireplace, there smiled down at him the benign face of Pius the Tenth. "Poor Pope," he said. "He has to be great, but this is what he would love. He never could get away from it quite. Doesn't he preach to the people yet, so as to feel the happiness of the pastor, and thus forget for an hour the fears and trials of the ruler?"

The fire was dying, but he did not stoop to replenish it. His thoughts were too holy and comforting to be broken in upon. But they were broken by Ann's knock.

"That McCarthy is sick ag'in," she said. "'Tis a nice time for the likes of him to be botherin' yer Riverence. Will I tell them ye'll go in the mornin'?"

"No, Ann, tell them I'll go now."

"Can't ye have wan night in peace?"

"McCarthy is peace, Ann. You don't understand."

No, Ann didn't understand. She only saw more labor. She didn't understand that it was only this that the priest needed to crown the glory of his day.

So Father Murray took his coat and hat and, with a light step, went out—a father going to the son who needed him.

He was not a bit tired when he came back to the blazing logs; but now he was perturbed, borne down by a prescience of coming change. From one point to another he walked—slowly, uneasily, pausing now and then. Finally he stood by his desk. Above it hung a large crucifix. His lips moved in prayer as he gazed on the crucified Christ. Then idly he picked up a book. It fell open in his hand, and he gazed thoughtfully at the oft-scanned page. How many times had he pondered those two lines,

"I fear to love thee, sweet, because Love's the ambassador of loss."

Thus read the priest who felt that peace was no longer possible. For a little while, perhaps—but not for long. The call would come again, and he would have to answer. He read once more, changing one word as he spoke the lines softly to himself,

"I fear to love thee, 'peace,' because Love's the ambassador of loss."

Yet, even in his vague unrest, this prelate who through humility had found the greater love, recalled his own words to Mark Griffin: "No one has lost what he sincerely seeks to find." Was not the past merely a preparation for the future? Peace might be found in any kind of duty. He looked up into the face of the sculptured Christ, and a swiftly-receding wave of agony swept across his mobile features, while his hand clenched tightly. "A soldier of the Cross," he murmured, and the hand was raised in quick salute. "Thy will be done." It was his final renunciation of self.

Sinking into the chair before the desk, he sat there with bowed head. At last he arose and, the book still in his hand, went back to his chair by the fire. As he sat looking into the flames, his old dreams of greater works rose up before him—those things that had been quite forgotten in his days of sorrow. They were coming back to life, and he began to be half afraid of these, his dream children. Already they seemed too real.

Ann, all unconscious of his presence, opened the door; she paused, hesitatingly silent.

"Well, Ann?" The voice was gentle, resigned.

"A telegram, Father."

He took the envelope which somehow reminded him of the yellow flames of his fire and seemed reaching out to grasp him. With a murmured prayer he tore it open. It was a message from the Bishop. The words were few, but only too easily understood by the priest who sought obscurity:

"Forgive me, my friend. I had not the heart to tell you the truth. I need you now, and then, perhaps, those greater than I. You may stay but a very little while. Come to me immediately after Christmas."

The flame-colored message went to its kind amid the great logs of the fireplace. Father Murray picked up his book again, turned its pages, and read softly to himself:

"Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed, Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah! must— Designer Infinite— Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?"

THE END