"Nonsense, love, you cannot separate what has never been joined together." He kissed away the tears that brimmed over from Katie's eyes. Yet as he did so, he was not sure that he had the right to do it, for the shadow of another woman seemed to come between them. He had confessed his dread to Elizabeth, but to this girl it was impossible; to her he must be all confidence. How different were these two women toward whom he stood in such peculiar relations, betrothed to one, possibly married to the other. If this last were true which of them would suffer the more? A week ago his imagination would not have seized upon Elizabeth's feelings at all; now he was convinced that it would be no less hard for her than for Katie; hard through her friendship and her pride. But this one's tender little heart would break. After all, it was only of her that he could think. The waiting was growing unendurable. Yet he felt that his father was right when he said that the easiest way, the shortest in the end, was to prove if possible that Harwin's story of his vocation was fabricated. Indeed, there was no case for appeal to the Court unless that were established. Let that fall through, and the lovers were free to marry. "Have you heard" he asked after a time, "that Sir Temple and Lady Dacre have written that they are coming to visit us,--us, Katie? You remember they had an invitation to our wedding,--they shall have another, dearest,--and could not come then, but they propose paying us a visit in our own home at Seascape where they suppose we are living now, you and I. I told you about my staying with them in England and asking them to visit me when I was married. I was thinking then of my chances of being engaged to you, Katie." "Yes, you told me of them," she said, and after a pause added, "You will have to write them the truth." "It is too late for that to do any good. They follow close on the heels of the letter; that is, by the next ship." "Then I suppose Aunt Faith will take them, either at your father's, or at Seascape. Which will it be, Stephen?" "That house! It can never be opened until you do it, Katie; you know that well enough." The girl sighed. Yet with all the sadness of her lot it was delightful to be loved and mourned over in this way; mourned over, and yet perhaps not lost. "I don't know about that being the best way," she returned slowly. "You know Stephen, Uncle Walter is peculiar, and you could not entertain your guests yourself; you would not have freedom. Really, it would not be quite as nice for you." "Always thinking of me," he cried. "It seems now that the only freedom I care about is the freedom to make you my wife, Katie."