"Then my advice is, do so. Why, think of those Taviton papers? To be drunk on a public platform; to allow your picture to be thrown on a screen, while he stammered out his drunken drivel. No wonder the people hooted him out of the town."

Olive was silent, although her face twitched with pain.

"At any rate, I am glad he had the shame to go away into hiding. I saw by a paper yesterday that nothing is known of his whereabouts."

"Yes, I know."

"You saw it?"

Olive nodded.

"I hope we've seen the last of him."

She did not speak.

John Castlemaine turned, and saw Mr. Sackville coming towards them, bearing a packet of letters and newspapers.

"The post has just come in," said the minister, "and I took the liberty of bringing your letters and papers."

He laid them on an empty chair by Olive Castlemaine as he spoke, and then went on.

"I must take the next train back to England."

"So soon?"

"Yes, there are two or three matters which require my immediate attention. You see--well, I came away somewhat suddenly, you know."

He was sorry he had spoken the moment the words escaped his lips, for he saw a look of pain shoot across Olive Castlemaine's face. But he had enough tact not to hurt her more by seeking to offer explanations.

"Nothing serious, I hope," said Mr. Castlemaine.

"My sister's husband has just died," he replied simply.

"Ah, I see, and your sister will need you. You have my deepest sympathy, my friend; if there is anything I can do to lighten her burden--or yours----"

"Thank you, Mr. Castlemaine, you are always very good."

"But you will remember what I have said?"

"Yes, thank you, I will remember; but at present she only needs me. You don't mind my hurrying away, do you? Good-bye."

"I shall go with you to the station," said Mr. Castlemaine. "You cannot leave for two hours yet."

"And I will go too," said Olive. "I am so sorry you are going, Mr.

Sackville."

Her words were more than an empty convention, and the minister felt it.

His heart had gone out with a great pity towards the girl whom he had baptized as a baby, whom he had romped with as a child, and whom he had received into the Church in after years. He loved her almost as much as John Castlemaine himself, and no one had sympathised with her more deeply than he.

"Thank you, Olive," he said. "Do you know what I've been thinking about all the morning?"

The girl was silent.

"I am sure it's right," he said, "G.o.d never makes a mistake."

"But we do," replied Olive.

"Yes, but it's all right. I am not an easy-going optimist, as you know, and I don't see how what I have said can be true. But it is. It helps me to bear my own sorrow to say it. G.o.d bless you, my little girl."

He went back to the hotel, leaving father and daughter together. In spite of the sad news he brought, in spite of the fact of his going away, his words comforted her. There is always help in the words and presence of a good man.

"If I were sure I did right," she said presently.

"You could have done nothing else," said John Castlemaine.

She did not answer for some time, neither did she turn to the letters and papers which Mr. Sackville had laid by her side. She was thinking of the words which Leicester had spoken to her. She remembered how he had said that if there was a G.o.d, He had used her as a means of his salvation, and she wondered how much truth there was in what he had said. Even yet she did not understand her own heart; all she knew was that since she had read the letter which had destroyed her hopes, life had been a great pain. Anger, pride, disappointment, and love had each in their turn fought for the mastery, and her heart had seemed to be broken in the struggle.

"No," she said, "I suppose I could not."

"We see what his reformation was worth," said John Castlemaine.

"Evidently he was playing you false all the time."

Olive was silent.

"Now honestly, Olive," said her father, "suppose you had a chance of altering the past, what would you do? Would you marry him?"

"No."

The word came from her lips before she knew she had uttered it. It seemed as though her heart spoke for her. John Castlemaine breathed a sigh of satisfaction.

"He was a bad, selfish, cynical man all the time, Olive," he said. "In no possible light was his conduct excusable. A drunkard I could have forgiven, if that were all, although you could never have married a drunkard----"

"No," said Olive quietly.

"But to--no, I will not repeat it. The man forfeited all right to respect."

"I want to get back home, father; I want to take up my work. I was a coward to come away; let us go back with Mr. Sackville."

"Impossible, my dear; still, I will not keep you here against your will.

Perhaps to-morrow--but read your letters, Olive."

Almost mechanically she turned to her letters, and read them. They were of no importance, and she skimmed them carelessly. Then she unfastened the wrapper of one of the newspapers, and began to read. A minute later she uttered a cry of pain as it fell from her hands.

"What is it, my dear?"

She did not speak; but looked away with a stony stare towards the shining sea in the distance.

"Tell me, Olive, what is the matter?"