"I am ready to do all I can, Mrs. Murphy," Philip stammered, struggling with his conscience to promise as much as he could; "and I'll see Mrs. Fenton. I'm sure she won't wish to have anything done that you would not like." The sick woman burst into weak tears, stammering half inarticulate blessings. "I don't know," Philip began, feeling that it was not honest to give her the impression that he could set her husband free, "how much"-- The priest crossed to him and laid a hand quickly on his shoulder. "Whist!" he said in Philip's ear. "There's no need of troubling her with that. You'll do what you can, and the rest's with heaven that is good to the poor." Mrs. Murphy had not heard or heeded what Ashe said, and still mumbled her thanks while the Father prepared to administer the viaticum. The acolyte and the girl looked at Ashe as if expecting him to withdraw. "May I remain?" Philip asked, looking at the priest with deep feeling. The other regarded him benignly. "Remain, my brother; and may the Holy Virgin bless the sacrament to your soul as well as to hers." Ashe could not have told why he had yielded to the impulse to stay. He had for months been coming more and more to feel that the church of Rome was his true refuge, yet he hardly now dared confess this to himself. He had been deeply affected by the discovery that Maurice had been to confession at St. Eulalia, and he longed himself to follow the example of his friend. To Ashe, however, it seemed like trifling with sacred things, and he could not do it. Now as he knelt on the unclean and uneven floor of that sordid chamber he experienced a peace and a security such as he had never before known. He was moved almost to tears; yet he would not yield. "It is not Rome," he insisted to himself. "It is the simple faith of these poor souls. That is beautiful and holy. It would be easy for me to think that I was becoming a Catholic." He left as soon as the rite was concluded, but the memory of it remained. He saw Mrs. Fenton on the afternoon following. He had not been alone with her since his mad declaration of love. He wished now to meet her calmly, yet the moment he entered her house his heart quickened its beating. He was no longer a priest bent on an errand of mercy; he was an ardent lover, acutely conscious that he was in the rooms through which she passed day by day, that in a moment he should see her, hear her voice, perhaps touch her hand. He was shown into the library where she was sitting, and she rose to greet him frankly and simply. "She was not touched by what happened in the carriage," Philip said to himself, with the woeful wisdom of love, "or she could not so completely ignore it." "How do you do, Mr. Ashe?" she said with perfect calmness. "You are just in time for a cup of tea. I am having mine early, because I came in a little chilled." He was too confused with the joy of her presence to decline.