She leant her brow against the back of the old sofa on which they were
sitting. "And--and no prayers for me?" she said huskily.

"Dear love!--at all times--in all places--at my downsitting and mine
uprising," he answered--every word an adoration.

She was silent for a moment, then she dashed the tears from her eyes.

"All the same, I shall never be a Catholic," she repeated resolutely;
"and how can you marry an unbeliever?"

"My Church allows it--under certain conditions."

Her mind flew over the conditions. She had heard them named on one or two
occasions during the preceding months. Then she turned away, dreading his
eye.

"Suppose I am jealous of your Church and hate her?"

"No!--you will love her for my sake."

"I can't promise. There are two selves in me. All your Catholic
friends--Father Leadham--the Reverend Mother--will be in despair."

She saw him wince. But he spoke firmly. "I ask only what is lawful. I am
free in such a matter to choose my own path--under my conscience."

She said nothing for a little. But she pondered on all that he might be
facing and sacrificing for such a marriage. Once a cloud of sudden