They were alone. Mr. Foster had pattered off to the railway station, to seek for information about the train by which Morgan was to travel. As he sat there, with the dear old woman who had shared all his early joys and sorrows, he could not help longing to tell her of his new trouble. But he knew not how to begin. And then her gentle voice broke the silence. "Morgan," she said, "maybe I am going to do a foolish thing. I never was a match-maker, for I've always thought that God alone ought to bring people together. But when I see two who seem to be made for each other, and one of them so near to me, how can I help saying a word?" "Speak on, mother," he answered, drawing a long breath. He knew what was coming. Well, at any rate it would give him the opportunity of unburdening his heart. "I should like to see you engaged to Eve Hazleburn," she continued, gaining courage. "She is as good as a daughter to me; but that isn't the reason that I want her for my son's wife. I want her, because there's a sort of likeness between you that makes me sure you ought to be made one. And I've seen your eyes follow her, Morgan, as if you thought so too." "It cannot be, mother," said the curate, almost passionately. "It cannot be, and yet I know it ought to be! I am already engaged to another woman; but I love Eve Hazleburn as I shall never love again!" "God help us all!" sighed Mrs. Foster, suddenly pressing his hand to enjoin silence. It was too late. His voice had been raised above its usual tone; and there stood Eve at the open door. He did not care--he was almost glad that she knew all. There had come upon him the recklessness that often arises out of hopelessness. If he must wear his chain, she should know what a heavy weight it was! "Come in, Miss Hazleburn," he said, rising excitedly; "I am not sorry that you have overheard me. Perhaps you will pity me a little. Surely you can spare a grain of compassion for the poor fool who has spoiled his own life! I think you will, for you are a good woman. Some women would glory in a conquest of this sort, but you are not of that number. Ah, I am talking nonsense, I suppose." Eve went straight up to him and laid her hand upon his arm. She could not pretend to have heard nothing, and she would not have told a lie if she could. Her light touch stopped him in his impatient walk up and down the little room. "Think of your mother, Mr. Foster," she said, softly. "She is not strong enough to bear a scene." He sat down again by the couch, and buried his face in the cushion on which Mrs. Foster's head rested. It was a boyish action; but Eve knew that the best men in the world generally keep a touch of boyishness about them. Her heart ached for him as she stood looking down upon the bowed head. And then the mother's glance met hers, and both women began to weep silently.