The bird suddenly ceased, and with its song in his brain Owen dozed, awakening at dawn, remembering her, how she had built herself a cottage, and settled her life here among four or five little crippled boys.  Could she undo her life to follow him?  Uprooted, transplanted, her brain might give way again, and this time without hope of recovery.  Or was he cheating himself, trying to find reasons for not asking her to marry him—­perhaps his manifest duty towards her.  Owen looked into his soul, asking himself if he were acting from a selfish or an unselfish motive.

Sleep seemed as far away as ever, and, getting out of bed, he drew the curtains, seeking the landscape, still hidden in the mist, only a few tree-tops showing over the grey vapour—­the valley filled with it—­and over the hidden hill one streak of crimson.  A rook cawed and flew away into the mist, leaving Owen to wonder what the bird’s errand might be; and this rook was followed by others, and seeing nothing distinctly, and knowing nothing of himself or of this woman whom he had loved so long, he returned to his bed frightened, counting his years, asking himself how many more he had to live.

A knock!  Only Eliza bringing his bath water.  Good heavens! he had been asleep.  “Eliza, what time is it?”

“Half-past eight, Sir Owen.  Miss Innes will be soon home from Mass to give the little boys their breakfast.”

“Home from Mass!” he muttered.  And he learned from Eliza that Miss Innes got up every morning at seven, for a Catholic gentleman lived in the neighbourhood who had a private chaplain.  “And she goes to Mass,” Owen muttered, “every morning, and comes back to give the little boys their breakfast!”

There was no Catholic gentleman within a mile of Riversdale, he was thankful to say, and his thankfulness on the point was proof to him of how years and circumstances had estranged him from Evelyn; for, though he would not obstruct or forbid, it would be impossible for him to keep a sneer out of his face when she told him she had been to the sacraments or refrained from meat on Friday.  “What a strange notion it is to think that a priest can help one,” he said, thinking then that his presence would be a sneer, however he might control his tongue or his face; she would feel that he held her little observances in contempt, and her, too, just a little.  How could it be otherwise?  How could he admire one who slipped her neck into a spiritual halter and allowed herself to be led?  Yet he loved her—­or was it the memory of their love that he loved?  Which?  He loved her when he saw her among the crippled children distributing porridge and milk, or maybe it was not love, but admiration.

“My dear, I didn’t know you would be down so soon.  If you will only go into the garden and wait for me, I shan’t be long.”

“Now then, children, you must hurry with your porridge; Sir Owen is waiting for his breakfast.”

“My dear Evelyn, I am not in a hurry.  Let the children take their time.”