Father Vincent felt some curiosity too, and went into the little room rather eagerly. She sat before her mother’s desk with a lot of papers open before her. It came upon him with the force of surprise that she had changed greatly in a few days. Her features were sharpened, her eyes had purplish hollows under them, and the dull black gown she wore only brought out the intense pallor of her face. "My child, where did you get those papers? You must let me examine them. There are some your mother wished destroyed," said the priest, hastily. "I know, Father, I know," she said in a dull tone. "Have you—" "Read them? No; but I heard all that she told you that day." "Ah!" he exclaimed, understanding why she looked so changed, and his eyes rested pityingly upon her. A fiery blush burned her throat and face for a moment, leaving her paler than ever when it receded. "Yes; I know," she said, and clasped her hands together on her lap. "Father, will you tell Mr. Everett?" "But—" "I cannot do it; help me, will you?" It was a piteous appeal, and his heart melted at the sight of her anguished eyes. "You think he ought to know it?" "He must, of course," she said, and he felt satisfied that she had not, for a moment even, been tempted to keep the truth from him. "He is in the parlor," she continued after a slight pause; "tell him all, spare nothing," her tensely drawn lips quivering, her hands tightly clenched. "My child, you take it too hard," laying his hand on her head. "I am grieved for you, but do not let it spoil your peace." "How can I help it, Father, with the training I have had? I cannot change my beliefs in a day. Oh, you know how my friends would shrink from me if they knew the truth, and I—I cannot blame them. I should do the same. There is no help, no comfort, for me anywhere." "There is the comfort of the Church, the help of Heaven." "Ah, yes; I forget—I forget." "But hear your lover before you decide your future. He has a right to it, remember." "Tell him, Father, tell him." He went away, and, turning the light a little lower, she waited. He made the story short, for in a few minutes the door opened again and her lover entered. She rose to meet him, determined to be brave and self-possessed, but that new, bitter sense of shame again overpowered her. She seemed to shrink and shrivel under his tender eyes, and sank down with bowed head. But he knelt by her chair with his arms around her, and drew that proud, averted face against him. "Dearest, dearest," he whispered, the very tone of his voice carrying to her his sympathy, his unshaken love. "I thank God that I learned the truth in time," she said faintly. "In time for what, Madeline?" "To save you." He raised her face, forced her to look at him. "Do you believe my love has changed?" "It has an element of pity now."