The curtains of the parson’s house had been flung back again, and the sentry had disappeared from the passage. The parson and Monjoy could now talk freely. As much as a merry word had passed between them, for a year of Back o’ th’ Mooin had set the parson longing for the conversation of his own kind; and then his brow had become clouded again. He had taken to this great red bear of a guest of his, as he had taken immediately to Cicely; but that did not excuse his lapse from rectitude; and, moreover, it appalled him to find that he was, for the time being, at any rate, no longer capable of prayer. He envied the beguiled captain his peace of mind. He sighed; but he was too fully occupied just then for remorse to stay long. His bad hour was yet to come. “Monjoy,” he said suddenly, on the afternoon of Sally’s funeral, “you owe me something.” “I haven’t forgotten it yet,” Monjoy replied. “You owe it to me to let me do now what I refrained from before--to improve the occasion.” “I’d like to repay you in a better sort than that,” Monjoy replied. “Ah, you can’t; and even that will not clear me of my fault. You see how reluctant I am to speak--this cloth of ours is more often than not a disadvantage, for none but professional words are expected from it----” “Go ahead,” said Monjoy. “Very well.--Leave it alone after this, my good fellow.” Monjoy made a little brusque gesture with his hand. “Oh, that’s all settled,” he replied. “That was settled before--but humph! Perhaps not; I’m hanged if I know!” A whimsical smile crossed his face. “I was going to say--I should have liked to be able to say--that that was all settled before the smash-up began; but frankly, I don’t know.... Give me the benefit of the doubt of it.” “And after this, what are your plans?” “Why, if (thanks to you) I am able to get through to Liverpool--the sea. Boston, perhaps--anywhere. If you mean my livelihood, well, I’m a good engraver.... I see you don’t want to exact a promise from me; let me offer it myself. Here and now, I promise you all--all you are thinking. Will you take that as my part of a Jesuitical sort of bargain?” They shook hands for the first time. “Have you any money?” the parson asked, by and by. Monjoy shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve two furnaces over the Slack; not a stiver besides.” “Will you let me lend you a little?” “Hm!--I might even have asked it. But let’s get something to eat first. I’m hungry.” At ten o’clock that night they shook hands again, and with a God-speed, the delinquent parson closed his kitchen door behind Arthur Monjoy. Before eleven, by dark hillsides and pasture-paths, that none would have seen who had not known them, Monjoy had come to the dry stream bed. He found the alder; his name was called softly, and, entering, he folded Cicely in his arms. In ten minutes they bestirred themselves.