“But it wouldn’t have made any difference had I known sooner.  It couldn’t have made any difference in my loving her,” he said.  “I must have loved her just the same no matter when or how we might have met.  Nothing ever could have altered that.  I am afraid that I couldn’t have helped loving her had she been another man’s wife.  I am keeping nothing back, you see, Father.  I am telling you the whole truth.  But perhaps it wouldn’t have been quite so hard to bear, had I known at the very first.  It can hardly be so hard to give up happiness when we have never dared long for it.  And I knew no reason why I might not try to make her love me.  As it is, from this time on, every thought of her must be like constantly trying to kill some suffering thing that can never die!”

He dropped his head on his arm which lay on the table.  The priest gently laid his hand on the thick, brown hair.

“My son,” he murmured.

“If the man that she is to marry were only different,” Paul groaned.  “If he were only more worthy, if I could only think that she would be happy.”

He did not know that he was merely saying what every unfortunate lover has thought since love and the world began; and it was a sad smile that touched the sympathy of Father Orin’s face.

“William Pressley is not a bad young fellow,” the priest said.  “He means well.  He lives uprightly according to his dull, narrow ideas of right.  And none of us can do any better than to live up to our own ideals.  It’s a good deal more than most of us do.  I am afraid he is selfish,” with the hesitation which he always felt in pronouncing judgment upon any one; “but then most of us men are, and maybe he will not be selfish toward her, for he must be fond of her.  Everybody loves the child.”

“But about her—­is she fond of him?  How can she be?”

“I can’t answer for that.  There’s no telling about a girl’s fancy; in fact, I have never given the engagement a thought.  It was all settled; it seemed a good, suitable arrangement—­”

“Arrangement!” groaned Paul.

Father Orin shook his head.  “It was most likely Philip Alston who brought it about.  He doubtless thought it a wise choice for both the young people.  He certainly never would have consented if he had not believed it to be for Ruth’s happiness—­that always comes first with him in everything.”

Paul Colbert sat up suddenly, throwing back his hair, and looked at the priest with a clearing gaze.  All the questions which he had been wishing to ask now rushed to his lips.  What was Ruth’s relation to Philip Alston?  What right had he to choose her husband?  What was his influence over William Pressley?  What was his hold upon Judge Knox?  What was this power that he wielded over the whole family of Cedar House?

“He is no relation to her, is he?  He isn’t even her guardian.  And William Pressley is an honest man, isn’t he, even though such a solemn, pompous prig?  He can hardly be a confederate of counterfeiters, forgers, robbers, and murderers.  And a single look at the judge’s face shows him to be the most upright of men; his open, unswerving honesty of thought and deed, cannot be doubted.  How is it, then, that Philip Alston can move all these honorable and intelligent people to suit his villanous purposes, as if they were pawns in a game of chess?”