But, at the same time, there was in him the mind of the practical man, which plainly and energetically disapproved her. And presently he tried, with much difficulty, to tell her so, to impress upon her--upon her, Mary's mother--that Mary must not be allowed to hold any communication with him, to show any kindness toward him, till this cloud had wholly cleared away, and the sky was clear again. He became almost angry as he urged this; so excited, indeed, and incoherent that a charming smile stole into Catharine's gray eyes. "I understand quite what you feel," she said as she rose, "and why you feel it. But I am not bound to follow your advice--or to agree with you--am I?" "Yes, I think you are," he said stoutly. Then a shadow fell over her face. "I suppose I am doing a strange thing"--her manner faltered a little--"but it seems to me right--I have been _led_--else why was it so plain?" She raised her clear eyes, and he understood that she spoke of those "hints" and "voices" of the soul that play so large a part in the more mystical Christian experience. She hurried on: "When two people--two people like you and Mary--feel such a deep interest in each other--surely it is God's sign." Then, suddenly, the tears shone. "Oh, Mr. Meynell!--trial brings us nearer to our Saviour. Perhaps--through it--you and Mary--will find Him!" He saw that she was trembling from head to foot; and his own emotion was great. He took her hand again, and held it in both his own. "Do you imagine," he said huskily "that you and I are very far apart?" And again the tenderness of his manner was a son's tenderness. She shook her head, but she could not speak. She gently withdrew her hand, and turned aside to gather up some letters on the table. A sound of footsteps could be heard outside. Catharine moved to the window. "It is Mary," she said quietly. "Will you wait a little while I meet her?" And without giving him time to reply, she left the room. He walked up and down, not without some humorous bewilderment in spite of his emotion. The saints, it seemed, are persons of determination! But, after a minute, he thought of nothing, realized nothing, save that Mary was in the little house again, and that one of those low voices he could just hear, as a murmur in the distance, through the thin walls of the cottage, was hers. The door opened softly, and she came in. Though she had taken off her hat, she still wore her blue cloak of Irish frieze, which fell round her slender figure in long folds. Her face was rosy with rain and wind; the same wind and rain which had stamped such a gray fatigue on Alice Puttenham's cheeks. Amid the dusk, the fire-light touched her hair and her ungloved hand. She was a vision of youth and soft life; and her composure, her slight, shy smile, would alone have made her beautiful. Their hands met as she gently greeted him. But there was that in his look which disturbed her gentleness--which deepened her colour. She hurried to speak.