Mrs. Grace had not accompanied the departing guests to the door. As the machine sped away Isabel realized her aunt's displeasure and braced against a scene. The time for plain words had arrived. She went slowly into the living-room, building up as best she could a line of defense for certain attack. By the glow of a wood fire, wreathing flame up the wide chimney, she saw her aunt's face; it was pale and tense with suspicion. Hate for the man, once her idolized confessor, had transformed the carefully preserved woman into one far from attractive. She seemed to gather vituperative force beyond her strength, for suddenly she stopped pacing the room to sink to a chair. Isabel turned, frightened.

"Aunt Julia! Aunt Julia, what is the matter?" She spoke, running forward.

Mrs. Grace motioned her away. "Don't pretend!" she cried. "I have seen from the very beginning—known exactly what you were both doing." Isabel said nothing. It was the older woman's opportunity. "Not building the cathedral was only an excuse for all that is still to come. You have ruined a man who otherwise must have been a saint!" She buried her face in her hands, which suddenly became gray and drawn beneath their weight of glistening gems. In anger, Mrs. Grace looked old.

"What kind of a life do you expect to lead with a traitor to both his faith and his honor? Do you suppose for a moment that he will forget! throw away his soul without longing to repent? I wish you joy of your conquest, Isabel Doan; and remember, I am telling you the truth, even though you have turned me from your house after all my devotion." Mrs. Grace sobbed hysterically. Isabel was at first stunned by her aunt's evil predictions; then she tried to speak. "You needn't excuse him!" the angry woman forbade. "I have heard your loose arguments before now. Don't tell me that it is better to break a sacred vow than to keep it with rebellion! I will not listen to you." She crossed herself against possible harm. "Read all the pagan books you can find; but don't forget my words. I must leave you as soon as possible, for, of course, after my treatment this afternoon I cannot intrude."

"Aunt Julia!" Isabel sank at her feet. "Please let us part friends," she pleaded. "You have been very good to me; if only you could understand—let me tell you things which you do not know——"

Mrs. Grace sprang up.

"And you intend to really marry that man!" Isabel flamed scarlet. "You actually expect to go through with the farce of a religious service? Well, you had better remember that marriage vows are more easily broken than any others. Don't be a fool—a prude about mere form—if you care to keep a lover; for mark my words, the man who has been untrue to his Church will find it much easier to forget a wife." Vindictive zeal gave Mrs. Grace hard fluency. And the insult which Isabel had not expected made her own part clear. She rose from the floor straight and firm.

"I feel that it is not too late for you to leave me this evening; if you think differently, I can take Reginald and Maggie into Los Angeles while you find another home. After what you have said it is impossible for us to sleep beneath the same roof."

Her wounded womanhood stood out superbly. She walked from the room. Above, with her door locked against every one, she burst into tears. With burning face in the pillow she wept out her heart. In all her life she had never felt so hurt and miserable. Would the world regard her marriage to Philip Barry in the same wretched light as her aunt? Then perhaps the Catholic woman was right; after all she—a heretic—might not be able to hold the man who was now willing to give up everything for love. And she had induced him to take the fatal step. Perhaps she did not understand the force of Catholic vows.

She sat up, gazing through the window at the full top of a eucalyptus tree, dark, and wonderfully etched against lingering gold of sunset. Why should she be miserable in a world as lovely as the one about her? She longed for the happiness which belonged to her youth and station. Again she recalled every word which she had said to Philip Barry at the side of his mother's casket. To her straightforward nature she had advised him wisely. With reason unbiased by dogmatic training; with her soul, honest as a child's, she felt no shame for what she had done. And it was now too late to hesitate. She had sent the message and she must hold to it with her life, her womanhood. She bathed her eyes, still going over the main facts of her lover's disgrace in the Catholic world. She came back always to the main point; he only committed a mistake when he had gone into the priesthood without realizing the price. He had tried in vain to live a life of self-denial, of enforced conformity, whereas both attempts were totally unsuited to his temperament and mentality. He had made a false step in the wrong direction; why, then, should he go on? It were better to stop than to stumble and fall. When a lawyer failed in the profession none thought worse of him when he succeeded with literature. And the doctor, unable to grasp physical ills of casual patients, carried no stain on his honor if he discovered some other calling. It could not be right to denounce a physician in charge of souls because he would not go on with a spiritual travesty. Philip's disappointment in regard to the cathedral, his unjust treatment by his bishop, his thwarted ambition,—these things she put to one side in a final summing up. All seemed secondary to the confession of the man who had stood by the side of his dead Catholic mother. He had said that he could no longer continue his priesthood, because he had ceased to be false with himself. That to Isabel made sufficient reason for all that had happened—for all to follow. She covered the case by direct standards of her own truthful nature. This evening, looking into the golden sunset, she could find no justifiable bar to marriage with Philip Barry.

When Maggie tapped on the door she opened it calmly. The girl was vaguely conscious of sudden disturbance. "Come in," said Mrs. Doan. "Mrs. Grace is leaving this evening," she explained. "If possible, you must help with her packing. I shall not be down to dinner. I am tired and will lie down outside with Reginald; you need not disturb me. Should I need you I can ring." Isabel had partly undressed.

"You won't have anything to eat?" the nursemaid questioned.

"Nothing now, perhaps later." Mrs. Doan hastened to put on a padded robe. Her hair fell about her shoulders.

She separated the shining mass, weaving it into braids, as she went, almost running, to her sleeping son. An upper balcony, partially protected by canvas, made his cozy nest. At the south and east there was nothing to shut out the stars, while at dawn peaks beyond the northern range rose dark and sharp through zones of burning rose. Isabel cast herself upon her own bed. Delicious air cooled her burning cheeks and she could hear the gentle, regular breathing of her boy. She had no thought of sleep. Her only wish was to escape to a place cut off from her aunt's temporary territory. Now she would wait. Her heart was kind, and in retreat she began to feel sorry for the woman with whom she had parted. Mrs. Grace was only half sister to Isabel's father, and far back the little girl had wondered why her pretty aunty so often quarreled with her family. Once she heard her father declare that Julia's nose and hands seemed to guarantee a lady, but she had caught no more. At the time she did not understand; since then she had grown older and wiser. She sank upon the pillow gratefully. Below there was a stir of running feet, a commotion at the telephone. Isabel tried to forget her own inhospitable part. Once she half rose from bed, half believed that she would face her hysterical aunt with overtures of peace. Then she felt the foolishness of going through with everything again. Mrs. Grace was impossible after what had taken place. Sounds about the house continued. The angry woman proposed to take her own time for packing; and it was nearly midnight before Isabel became sure that an unwelcome guest had gone. Above with the boy, she watched the stars grow brighter, listened to night calls of stirring birds, wondered about Philip Barry at the other side of the world. Now at last she was alone in the house with Reginald and the servants. She got up and went below, to find Maggie crying in the hall. The girl hid a crimson face and Isabel knew that Mrs. Grace had enlightened her in regard to a coming event. As one Catholic to another, she had warned the nursemaid to protect her soul from evil influence.

"You may go to bed," Mrs. Doan commanded. Maggie turned away, then came back. Her voice failed and she pointed to the dining room, where a little supper was daintily set out. She sobbed her way to the back of the house, then above to her room. Isabel was alone. She had hardly dreamed of freedom, yet now it was here. The fire in the living-room still burned; and like a child, she took a bowl of milk and bread and sat down on a rug before glowing embers. In spite of all she felt happy. She was hungry, too; and after she had eaten every mouthful she sat on,—thinking of Philip.