"We shall have to go home on the train," Justin said, as he noted the whitecaps beyond the bay. "There's too much wind to make it safe for us to fly." "Then we must go now. It is very late." "I can telephone Sophie from the gatekeeper's house. It's on the other side of the church. And I'll telephone to the men to come after the hydro-plane." She assented listlessly, and they walked on. The church, when they reached it, showed itself an ancient edifice. Built of English brick, it had withstood the storms of years. Its bell still rang clearly the call to Sunday service, and at its font were baptized the descendants of the men who slept in the old cemetery. As they reached the steps, a man who was digging a grave hailed them. "If you and your wife would like to look in," he said to Justin, "you can bring the key to me at the gate. I'll be there when you come." He unlocked the door for them. They heard his retreating footsteps, and knew that they were alone. Then Justin spoke with quickened breath. "That is as it should be--my wife----" Out of a long silence she whispered, "Please--we must not--we must not----" "Surely we have a right to happiness----" She had left his side, and her voice seemed to come faintly from among the shadows: "Hasn't everybody a right to happiness?" "Why should we think of everybody--it is my happiness and yours which concerns us--sweetheart." She did not answer, and, following her, he found that she had entered one of the high-backed, old-fashioned pews, and was on her knees. Hesitating, he presently knelt beside her. It was very still in the old church--the old, old church, with its history of sorrow and stress and storm. One final blaze of light illumined the stained glass window above the altar, and touched the bent heads with glory--the bright uncovered head and the veiled one beside it. Then again came dimness, darkness--silence. They were in the vestibule of the church before he spoke to her. "Did you pray," he asked, "for me?" "I prayed for all men and women--who love----" He laid his hands on her shoulders and gazed down at her with all of his heart in his sad young eyes. "There must be some way out of this," he said. "Surely God can't be so cruel as to keep us apart. Why, we are so young, dear one, and there's all of life before us--think of all the years." The look with which she met his glance had in it all the steadfastness of awakened womanhood. "You said out there that I could be brave and patient. Help me to be brave--big brother." "Don't," he said, hoarsely; "don't call me that. It's got to be all or nothing. But whatever comes, whether you marry me or marry Anthony--I'm going to love you always. I'm going to love you until I die, Bettina." CHAPTER XVIII PENANCE Miss Matthews' cold proved to be bronchitis, and Bettina insisted on nursing her.