"Pardon me," said the lady, "for disturbing you, Monsignore."

Father Murray laughed and put up his hand. "Now, then--please, please."

"Well, _Father_, then. I like it better, anyway. I heard that poor
man is dead. Can I do anything?"

"I think you can," said Father Murray. "Will you step in?"

"No, Father; let me sit here." She looked at Mark, who stood waiting
to make his adieux. There was no mistaking the look, and the priest
understood at once. Plainly astonished, he introduced Mark. The lady
bowed and smiled. As she sat down, she raised her veil. Mark gazed
timidly into her face. Though she was seemingly unconscious of the
gaze, yet a flush crept up under the fair skin, and the low voice
faltered for an instant as she addressed him.

"I am a stranger here, like yourself, I fancy, Mr. Griffin," she
ventured, "but I have to thank you for a service."

Mark was scarcely listening. He was wondering if, underneath the
drooping brim of her hat, amongst the curling tendrils of golden-brown
hair, there might not be a hint of red to show under the sunlight. He
was thinking, too, how pretty was the name, Ruth Atheson. It was
English enough to make him think of her under certain trees in a
certain old park of boyhood's days.

"Do you know each other?" Father Murray was evidently still more
astonished.