In six weeks it had been forgotten, except by three people—­Miss Keene, James Hurlstone, and Padre Esteban.  Since Hurlstone had parted with Miss Keene on that memorable afternoon he had apparently lapsed into his former reserve.  Without seeming to avoid her timid advances, he met her seldom, and then only in the presence of the Padre or Mrs. Markham.  Although uneasy at the deprivation of his society, his present shyness did not affect her as it had done at first:  she knew it was no longer indifference; she even fancied she understood it from what had been her own feelings.  If he no longer raised his eyes to hers as frankly as he had that day, she felt a more delicate pleasure in the consciousness of his lowered eyelids when they met, and the instinct that told her when his melancholy glance followed her unobserved.  The sex of these lovers—­if we may call them so who had never exchanged a word of love—­seemed to be changed.  It was Miss Keene who now sought him with a respectful and frank admiration; it was Hurlstone who now tried to avoid it with a feminine dread of reciprocal display.  Once she had even adverted to the episode of the cross.  They were standing under the arch of the refectory door, waiting for Padre Esteban, and looking towards the sea.

“Do you think we were ever in any real danger, down there, on the shore—­that day?” she said timidly.

“No; not from the sea,” he replied, looking at her with a half defiant resolution.

“From what then?” she asked, with a naivete that was yet a little conscious.

“Do you remember the children giving you their offerings that day?” he asked abruptly.

“I do,” she replied, with smiling eyes.

“Well, it appears that it is the custom for the betrothed couples to come to the cross to exchange their vows.  They mistook us for lovers.”

All the instinctive delicacy of Miss Keene’s womanhood resented the rude infelicity of this speech and the flippant manner of its utterance.  She did not blush, but lifted her clear eyes calmly to his.

“It was an unfortunate mistake,” she said coldly, “the more so as they were your pupils.  Ah! here is Father Esteban,” she added, with a marked tone of relief, as she crossed over to the priest’s side.

When Father Esteban returned to the refectory that evening, Hurlstone was absent.  When it grew later, becoming uneasy, the good Father sought him in the garden.  At the end of the avenue of pear-trees there was a break in the sea-wall, and here, with his face to the sea, Hurlstone was leaning gloomily.  Father Esteban’s tread was noiseless, and he had laid his soft hand on the young man’s shoulder before Hurlstone was aware of his presence.  He started slightly, his gloomy eyes fell before the priest’s.

“My son,” said the old man gravely, “this must go on no longer.”

“I don’t understand you,” Hurlstone replied coldly.

“Do not try to deceive yourself, nor me.  Above all, do not try to deceive her.  Either you are or are not in love with this countrywoman of yours.  If you are not, my respect for her and my friendship for you prompts me to save you both from a foolish intimacy that may ripen into a misplaced affection; if you are already in love with her”—­