“I shall come here for six months in the year just as always, Father,” she said at last.  “I can never sever myself from Heronac.”

“God forbid,” exclaimed the priest, aghast.  “If you left us, the sun no more would seem to shine.”

“And sometimes I will come—­alone—­because there will be times, my Father, when I shall want to fight things out—­alone.”

The Pere Anselme took some steps nearer her, and after a moment said, in a grave voice: 

“Remember always, my daughter, that le bon Dieu settles things for us mortals if we leave it all to Him—­but if we take the helm in the direction of our own affairs, it may be He will let circumstance draw us into rough waters.  In that case, the only thing for us is to be true to our word and to our own souls—­and to use common sense.”

Sabine looked at him with somber, startled eyes.

“You mean, that I decided to help myself, Father—­about the divorce—­and that now I must look only to myself—­It is a terrible thought.”

“You are strong, my child; it may be that you were directed from above, I cannot say,” and he shrugged his shoulders gently.  “Only that the good God is always merciful.  What you must be is true to yourself. Pax vobiscum,” and he placed his hand upon her head.

But, for once, Sabine lost control of her emotions and, bursting into a passion of tears, she rushed from the room.

“Alas! all is well?” said the priest, half aloud, and then he knelt by the window and prayed fervently—­without telling his beads.

But, at breakfast, Sabine’s eyes were dry again, and she seemed quite calm.  She, too, had held communion with herself, and her will had once more resumed the mastery.  This should be the last exhibition of weakness—­and the last feeling of weakness; and as she would suppress the outward signs, so she would crush the inner emotion.  All life looked smiling.  She was young, healthy and rich.  She had inspired the devoted love of a good and great man, whose position would give scope for her ambitions, whose intellect was a source of pleasure and joy to her, and whose tenderness would smooth all her path.  What right had she to have even a crumpled rose leaf!  None in the world.

She must get accustomed even to hearing of Michael, and perhaps to meeting him again face to face, since Henry was never to know—­or, at least, not for years perhaps, when she had been so long happily married that the knowledge would create no jar.  And at all events, he need not know—­of the afterwards—­that should remain forever locked in her heart.  Then she resolutely turned to lighter thoughts—­her clothes in Paris, the pleasure to see Moravia again—­the excitement of her trip to London, where she had never been, except to pass through that once long ago.

The Pere Anselme came to the station with her, and as he closed the door of the reserved carriage she was in, he said: