Martin Valliant laid his Mass-book on the table. Kate Succory was talking so calmly and so naturally that he knew she was to be believed; yet here was a new and astonishing phase of monastic life thrust upon him without a moment’s warning. Martin was no innocent, though he had led a sheltered life; he knew that there were monks at Paradise who had broken their vows. But here was this girl coming all the way from Paradise village and turning up her sleeves to keep house for him as though she were doing the most natural thing in the world. He floundered in the depths of his own simplicity. “Who sent you here, child?” he asked her bluntly. Kate’s brown eyes met his. “I just mounted the gray donkey and came. No one could have bidden me sweep your hearth for you. Rose Lorrimer was hearth-ward to Father Jude, and before Father Jude Father Nicholas was here, and old Marjory cared for him; but she was not old Marjory then.” She laughed, and began to mold the dough into shape, her arms all white with flour. “Rose took Father Jude’s sheets away with her, but if we can come by some good linen I will soon have things as they should be. Of course, if I do not please you——” She gave him a quick, sidelong glance, her teeth showing between her red lips. Martin Valliant had gone as white as the dough she was kneading. His knees were trembling. He could not escape from the knowledge of her green gown, her shining hair, and the sleekness of her skin. And her voice was very pleasant, with a sly lilt of playfulness and of youth in its tones. He gripped the arms of his chair and stood up. “My child—” he began. She gave him the full, challenging frankness of her brown eyes, and Martin knew that he could not pretend that she was a child. “It is very lonely here,” she said, looking at her hands, “and a man cannot do a woman’s work. Rose told me that travelers passed no more than once a month. And—and I——” He pushed his chair back, and groped with one hand for the cross that hung at his girdle. “It is not good that you should be here.” He saw her head droop a little. Her hands rested on the table. He strove with himself, and went on. “But I thank you, my sister. What I bear must be borne for the sake of the vows I have taken. When I kneel in the chapel, you shall be in my prayers.” All the sly, provoking roguery had gone from her face. She did not speak for a moment, did not move. Then she lifted her head and looked at him, and her brown eyes were like the eyes of an animal in pain. “I am not a bad woman, Father Martin, not evil at heart. But——” She caught her breath, and pressed her hands to her breasts. “Yes, I will go.” She turned suddenly and walked straight out of the cell into the glare of the sunlight. And Martin Valliant stood biting the sleeve of his frock, and thinking of the look her brown eyes had given him. _Chapter VII_