face quite plainly. She is the woman."

"Crying?" The Bishop seemed about to cry himself. "Poor creature,
poor creature--and unfortunate man. So he has brought her here after
all. I am afraid, Father, I did not do right when I omitted telling
him the exact situation. What shall we do? We cannot possibly stay."

Mark felt that he was eavesdropping, but everything had happened so
quickly that there had been no chance to escape. He could not help
hearing. His uneasiness became a great fear, and he felt that his face
was bloodless. Turning to escape if possible through the kitchen, he
paused long enough to hear the secretary say:

"No, Bishop, I am afraid you cannot stay. Monsignore Murray is quite
beyond understanding. He seems so good, and yet to have done a thing
like this is awful. Surely he realizes what a scandal he may stir up."

"Could you possibly secure an automobile to take us to Father Darcy's?"
asked the Bishop anxiously. "He lives in the next town, and we could
catch the train at his station."

"I will try."

By this time Mark had decided that he could not very well go through
the kitchen, and he had heard enough to make him feel that his duty
toward Ruth was to wait. It was something he would not have done under
other circumstances; but Mark was in love, and he remembered the adage
about love and war.

"At once, please," he heard the young priest say over the telephone.