"I'll tell you what I did do!" he exclaimed. "I whined to you, until I loathe myself, about a woman who never cared a straw for me. Do you call that manly?"

"I call it very natural," said Angela.

"And after all----"

"Yes, after all?" He hesitated so long that she looked up into his face and gently repeated the words "After all?"

"After all," he went on at last, with a sort of groan, "I love--someone else."

They were both silent. He threw himself into a chair, and looked at her expectantly.

"Don't you despise me?" he said, presently.

"Why should I, Mr. Heron?"

"Why? Because you are so constant, so changeless, that you cannot be expected to sympathise with a man who loves a second time," cried Percival, in an exasperated tone. "And yet this love is as sunlight to candlelight, as wine to water! But you will never understand that, you, with your heart given to one man--buried in a grave."

He stopped short; she had half-risen, and made a gesture as if she would have bidden him be silent.

"There!" he said, vehemently. "I am doing it again. I am hurting you, grieving you, as I did once before, when I forgot your great sorrow; and you did right to reprove me then. I know you have hated me ever since. I know you cannot forgive me for the pain I inflicted. It's, of course, of no use to say I am sorry; that is an utterly futile thing to do; but as far as any such feeble reparation is in my power, I am quite prepared to offer it to you. Sorry? I have cursed myself and my own folly ever since."

"You are making a mistake, Mr. Heron," said Angela. She felt as if she could say nothing more.

"How am I making a mistake?" he asked.

"At the time you refer to," she said, in a hurried yet stumbling sort of way, "when you said what you did, I thought it careless, inconsiderate of you; but I have not remembered it in the way that you seem to think; I have not been angry. I have not hated you. There is no need for you to tell me that you are sorry."

"I think there is every need," he said. "Do you suppose that I am going away into the Western wilds without even an apology?"

"It is needless," she murmured.

There was a pause, and then he leaned forward and said in a deeper tone:--

"You would not say that it was needless if you felt now as you did just then."

She looked at him helplessly, but did not speak.

"It is three years since he died. I don't ask you to forget him, only I ask whether you could not love someone else--as well?"

"Oh, Mr. Heron, don't ask me," she said, tremblingly. And then she covered her face with her hands; her cheeks were crimson.

"I will ask nothing," said Percival. "I will only tell you what my feelings have been, and then I will go away. It's a selfish indulgence, I know; but I beg of you to grant it. When I had spoken those inconsiderate words of mine I was ashamed of myself. I saw how much I had grieved you, and I vowed that I would never come into your presence again. I went away, and I kept away. You have seen for yourself how I have tried to avoid you, have you not?"

"Yes," she said, gently. "I have seen it."

"You know the reason now. I could not bear to see you and feel what you must be thinking of me. And then--then--I found that it was misery to be without you. I found that I missed you inexpressibly. I did not know till then how dear you had grown to me."

She did not move, she did not speak, she only sat and listened, with her eyes fixed upon her folded hands. But there was nothing forbidding in her silence. He felt that he might go on.

"It comes to this with me," he said, "that I cannot bear to meet you as I meet an ordinary friend or acquaintance. I would rather know that I shall never see you again. Either you must be all to me--or nothing. I know that it must be nothing, and so--I am going to California."

"Do not go," she said, without looking up. She spoke coldly, he thought, but sweetly, too.

"I must," he answered. "I must--in spite of the joy that it is to me to be even in your presence, and to hear your voice--I must go. I cannot bear it. I love you too well. It is a greater pain than I can bear, to look at you and to know that I can bring you no comfort, no solace; that your heart is buried with Richard Luttrell in a grave."

"You are mistaken," she said again. Then, in a faltering voice, "you can bring me comfort. I shall be sorry if you are away."

He caught his breath. "Do you mean it, Angela?" he cried, eagerly.

"Think what you are saying, do not tell me to stay unless--unless--you can give me a little hope. Is it possible that you do not forbid me to love you? Do you think that in time--in time--I might win your love?"

"Not in time," she murmured, "but now--now."

He could hardly believe his ears. He knelt down beside her, and took her hands in his. "Now, Angela?" he said. "Can you love me now? Oh, my love, my love! tell me the truth! Have you forgiven me?"

Her eyes were swimming in tears, but she gave him a glance of so much tenderness and trust, that he never again doubted her entire forgiveness. She might never forget Richard Luttrell, but her heart, with all its wealth of love, was given to the man who knelt before her, not buried in a grave.

Of course he did not go to California. The project was an utterly unsuitable one, and nobody scouted it more disdainfully than did he as soon as the mood of discontent was past. If a crowning touch were needed to the happiness of Brian and Elizabeth, it was given by this marriage.

The sting of remorse which had troubled them at times when they looked at Percival's gloomy face was quite withdrawn. Percival's face was seldom gloomy now. Angela seemed to have found the secret of soothing his irritable nerves, of calming his impatience. Her sweet serenity was never ruffled by his violence; and for her sake he learned to subdue his temper, and to smooth his tongue as well as his brow. She led the lion in a leash of silk, and he was actually proud to be so led.

They took a house in the unfashionable precincts of Russell-square, where Percival could be near his work. They were not rich, by any manner of means; but they were able to live in a very comfortable fashion, and soon found themselves surrounded by a circle of friends, who were quite as much attracted by Angela's tranquil grace and tenderness as by Percival's fitful brilliancy. Percival would never be very popular; but it was soon admitted on every hand that his intellect had seldom been so clear, his insight so great, nor his wit so free from bitterness, as in the days that succeeded his marriage with Angela. There is every reason to suppose that he will yet be a thoroughly prosperous and successful man.

The one drop of bitterness in their cup is the absence of children. No little feet have come to patter up and down the wide staircase of that roomy house in Russell-square, no little voices re-echo along the passages and in the lofty rooms. But Angela's heart is perhaps only the more ready to bestow its tenderness upon the many who come to her for help--the weak, the sickly, the sinful and the weary, for whom she spends herself and is not spent in vain.

Little more than two years after Brian's marriage, Mrs. Luttrell died.

She died with her hand fast clasped in that of the man who had been indeed a son to her, she died with his name upon her lips. And when she was laid to rest beside her husband and her eldest son, Brian and Elizabeth were free to carry out a project which had been for some time very near their hearts. They went together to San Stefano.

It was then that Elizabeth first heard the whole story of her husband's sojourn at the monastery. She had never known more than the bare facts before; and she listened with a new comprehension of his character, as he told her of the days of listless anguish spent after his illness at San Stefano, and of the hopelessness from which her own words and looks aroused him. He spoke much, also, of Dino and of Padre Cristoforo and the kindly monks: and in the sunny stillness of an early Italian morning they went to the churchyard to look for Dino's grave.

They would not have found it but for the help of a monk who chanced to be in the neighbourhood. He led them courteously to the spot. It was unmarked by any stone, but a wreath of flowers had been laid upon it that morning, and the grassy mound showed signs of constant care. Brian and Elizabeth stood silently beside it; they did not move until the monk addressed them. And then Brian saw that Father Cristoforo was standing at their side.

"He sleeps well," he said. "You need not mourn for him."

"Yes, he sleeps," answered Brian, a little bitterly. "But we have lost him."

"Do I not know that as well as you? Do I not grieve for him?" said the old man, with a deep sigh. "I have more reason to grieve than you. I have never yet told you how he died. Come with me and I will let you hear."

They followed him to the guest-room of the monastery, and there, whilst they waited for him to speak, he threw back his cowl and fixed his eyes on Elizabeth's fair face.

"It was for your sake," he said, "for your sake, in part, that Dino left his duty to the Church undone. It was your face, signora, that came, as he told me, between him and his prayers. I am glad that I have seen you before I die."

He spoke mournfully, yet meditatively--more as if he was talking to himself than to her. Elizabeth shrank back a little, and Brian uttered a quick exclamation.

"Her face?" he said. "Father, what does this mean?"