“Ralph Denmead may know, he is an old friend of his. I will inquire. But in any case many months are sure to pass before all the legal forms are gone through, and in the meantime you will have to live as quietly and guardedly as possible. Have you realised that?” “Yes,” she said, with a little shiver. “A fortnight of country-house life, in such a place as Mearn Castle, makes one realise evil more keenly than years on the stage.” She remembered miserably the people she had met there--men and women so utterly unprincipled that she loathed and despised them. She remembered the callous indifference with which her husband had observed all the annoyances to which she was subjected. She remembered the age-long hours, unoccupied by professional work--barren of all that could be called employment. And then, turning from the past as from some hideous dream, she thought how restful it was to be here in this little island, with the man whose heart had never faltered from its allegiance, the lover whose self-sacrificing constancy was as untiring as the love of God. Never from his lips would she have heard such words as had filled her with a sense of degradation at Meam Castle. It was the depth of his love, the fineness of his reverence, which kept him now from expressing the passion which she knew filled his heart. He would wait till the law had declared her freedom--would wait and think only of how she could best be shielded from the strife of tongues. “If you are really at a loss for some quiet place, and for friends who can rightly protect you, why should you not go for a time to the Herefords’ house near Firdale?” said Macneillie. “I know them very slightly,” she objected. “Besides, is not that meant for people who have no money?” “Monkton Verney is for all, I think, who are in need--it’s a Cave of Adullam--and though you don’t know Mr. and Mrs. Hereford well, you know Miss Claremont and she is the practical head of things.” “I will at any rate write to her, she is a wonderful woman for understanding,” said Christine. “I am glad you reminded me of her.” Macneillie stood up, for he knew that it would be unwise to stay longer, and that he must somehow tear himself away. “Write and let me know whether you go there,” he said; “and don’t forget that if I can do anything for you in any way, I have at least the right of an old friend. I see the steamer over yonder, and before long a host of people will be at the landing-stage and some of them may be rowing out to visit Ellen’s Isle. Even here, in this paradise, Satan walks you see in the shape of the gossiping British tourist; and your face and mine are public property. I might do harm by staying here.” “Not even here,” she sighed, “in this lonely place? And it’s so long since I saw you!” He took her hand in his, and held it for a minute tenderly; looking into his face, the beauty of its expression of strong patience startled her.