As for Mary Swinton, her pallor, which troubled him a little, seemed to have increased her beauty. He often took her by the shoulders and, looking into her soft eyes, declared that she was the most wonderful wife, and the best mate any clergyman ever had. Her gowns were more magnificent than ever, regal in their sumptuousness and elegance, and her hair maintained its pristine brilliance--aided a little by art, but of that, as a man, he knew nothing. Her manner, too, had altered--she was more anxious to please than ever before--and it touched him deeply. She tried hard to stay at home and practise self-denial and reasonable economy; it seemed that the ideal home-life was a thing accomplished. The rector's cup of happiness would have been quite full but for the anxiety of the war. His son had enjoyed wonderful luck. He had been mentioned in dispatches within a week of his arrival at the front. What more could a father desire? Every morning, they opened their newspapers with dread; but, as the weeks slipped by, they grew accustomed to the strain. Netty even forgot to look at the paper for days together. Her lover had been invalided home, and her chief interest in the war news was removed. For some weeks, Mrs. Swinton sincerely tried to live the life of a clergyman's wife. She attended church meetings, mothers' meetings, gave away prizes, talked with old women and bores, and went to church four times on Sunday--and all this as a salve to her conscience, with a desperate hope that it would help to smooth away difficulties if they ever arose. That "if" was her mainstay. Her last forgery was a very serious affair--she did not realize how serious, or how large the sum, until the first excitement had died down, and all the money had been paid away. The possibility of raising any more funds by the same methods was quite out of the question. She was dimly conscious of a growing terror of her father. He was by nature merciless, and had always seemed to hate her. If he discovered her fraud, would he spare her for the sake of the family name and honor? No. He would do something, but what? She dared not contemplate. She dared not think of the frailness of the barriers which stood between herself and the possible consequences of her crime. Sometimes, she awoke in the night with a damp sweat upon her, and saw herself arraigned in the dock as a criminal charged with robbing her father. In the daylight, she rated her possible punishment as something lower. Perhaps, he would arrange to have his money back by stopping her allowance, and so leave her stranded until the debt was paid off--or he would beggar her by stopping it altogether. Another thought came often. Before anything was found out, the old man might die. That would mean her deliverance. Yet, again, if he left her nothing, or Dick either, then it spelt ruin, which would shadow all their lives. The thought was unbearable. She tried to forget it in a ceaseless activity.