And he thought again of those fifty orphans or waifs.  Why weren’t they here to bow and do honor to him who had been the friend of girls in life and who was the guardian angel of girls in death?  This was the hallowed spot, the benefactor’s resting-place till devout hands raised him and priests sang over him, the rocky shrine of their patron saint.

Dale grunted, shook himself, and went off the ride in the opposite direction—­to tread the moss that had been crushed by Norah’s footsteps, to push against the branches that had touched her shoulders, to see the dead flowers that had dropped from her hands.  He found a shriveled sprig or two of her woodland posy, and carried them to the fallen beech tree.

She was gone now—­already a long way from him—­at the railway station, with ticket bought, and box labeled, waiting for the train to take her still farther from him.  Only a heron could fly fast enough to get to her now before the train possessed her.  And he quoted himself again, really saying the words aloud this time.  “Good-by—­my darling—­good-by, good-by.”

That was what he meant when he gave her the last kiss.  He had said so.  He had called it the last kiss.  But she—­poor lamb—­thought it was the last kiss till next time; that it was good-by for three weeks, not good-by forever.  He must never see her again.  There could be no two ways about that decision.  He mustn’t palter, or trifle, or shilly-shally about that iron certainty.  But how without Heaven’s unceasing aid would he have strength to keep such a vow?

And sitting on the tree, and thinking for a little while about himself rather than about her, he endeavored to survey his situation in the logical clear-sighted way that had once been customary with him.  To what a blank no-thoroughfare he had brought himself.  What a damnable mess he had made of his peaceful, happy home.

Of course he had known for a long time what was the matter with him.  His disgust with himself at the revelation of his own weakness dated from a long time ago; but the progress of his passing from perfectly pure and normal thoughts about the girl to cravings that he struggled with as morbid impurities was so subtle that it defied analysis.  At first when he put his hand on her head, or patted her shoulder, every thought behind the fatherly gesture was itself fatherly; and then, without anything to startle one by a recognition of change, the time had come when he felt a slight thrill in touching her, when he was always seeking occasions or excuses for doing it, when the wider the contact the more massive was his satisfaction.  Her white neck, her round fore-arms, her thin wrists, irresistibly attracted a caress.  He could not keep his hands off her—­and it distressed and worried him whenever he saw anybody else doing quite innocently what he did with an unavowable purpose.  Perhaps this was the real cause of his dislike for the new pastor.  After Mr. Furnival’s initial