Philip and Isabel were now at home. But the wife had not been able to turn her husband's mind from his late public humiliation. She was frightened, miserable. Would Philip always be as now—crushed, silent with the one he loved best? She buried her face in her hands. Her cheeks burned, while her eyes remained dry. She dared not weep, dared not break down before the changed, listless man whom she would save at any cost to her own anguish. As first days of home-coming dragged away she began to see that she had been presumptuous. After all, her marriage was not to be a happy one. She knew that Philip adored her even more than before the fatal afternoon at the mission, when he had fallen unconscious at her side; yet something obstinate and heart-rending had come between them. Tragic doubt seemed to be freezing her husband's tenderness. With passionate dread of misjudging him she withheld from day to day the question she could not ask. She felt that above all she must wait until the shock of his cruel punishment had ceased to be vivid. During sleepless nights, when she knew for the first time the price of a Catholic priest's apostasy, there came also the realization of personal, unjust punishment. Nor did she acknowledge wrong for either Philip or herself; they had done no wrong. They were created for each other, and their only mistake had been the last imprudent visit to a forbidden place. She grieved over her own ignorance which had permitted Philip to incur the risk which had turned against him. She was bitter, and because of a defensive attitude she could not understand her husband's crushed condition. The joy of those first two weeks at St. Barnabas had departed. Isabel knew that she was a constant reproach to the stricken man, utterly changed and gently silent. Through days when she tried to distract his mind from a forbidden subject, driving him, herself, about the country growing more lovely with each hour of spring, she felt the mutual strain to be almost intolerable. Lurid newspaper accounts of Philip's disgrace had helped to convert their once happy drives into perfunctory, humble attempts to escape notice. Now they went alone in a runabout, avoiding every evidence of ostentation. Country roads lured them from town and led them on to unfrequented foothill slopes, where blue buckthorn adorned sweet-smelling upland acres. Below the purple range deepened with March shadows, swept by fickle sunlight playing over crags and into canyons, the couple passed long intervals when neither one of them spoke. Heart-breaking reticence tied their tongues. Each guessed the thoughts of the other.

All about was the bewildering call of fresh life, yet they could not respond to Nature's glad outburst. Deciduous orchards, flushing buds, early almond blossoms pure as snow, wild flowers, buckthorn, edging miles of stony wash with tender blue, seemed only to evoke prolonged silence. The beauty of everything hurt them, for they were both unhappy and afraid to speak plainly. Then at night, when each lay wide awake, blessing darkness which at last hid their faces, relaxing after false smiles and feigned composure, everything had to be thought out once more. What would come of it all? Philip Barry's wife dared not press the question. She was young and she could not give up easily her dream of love. A passionate undercurrent of hope still helped her to endure the tense situation. Trivialities of everyday life assisted her in deceiving her household. She was gentle with her boy and thoughtful for old madame. Servants saw no change in their mistress. A battle had begun, and, believing in the odds of destiny, Isabel marshalled reserve force and smiled before her little world. But at heart she was frightened. Again and again she remembered the awful moment when she had believed her husband to be dead. Now she imagined the sweeter side of a withheld tragedy. For would Philip forget? Ever be the same man he had been before he went down disgraced in the eyes of a frightened throng fleeing from evil influence? Only a few Protestants understood; but these had come to the rescue, bearing the prostrate stranger into open air—out of the dreadful place. Isabel followed silently behind, like a widow, giving up her dead. When they laid her husband down on the worn stone platform before the mission, she had begged piteously not to halt an instant. But a doctor stayed her anguish with the assurance of Philip's beating heart; and she had dropped unbelieving to his side. Every one had been kind—very kind. But it seemed hours, while she waited—waited! And at last they told her that Philip had only fainted. All that followed was still fresh in her mind. And now as days passed she found it impossible to forget vivid details of the quick departure from St. Barnabas, of a miserable, unexpected home-coming.

Now her main hope was her husband's book: that might save him, yet raise his self-respect to normal. She awaited eagerly a letter of acceptance. To watch for it without appearing to do so was difficult. Once she had missed the postman. Still undoubtedly she would have heard in the event of good news, and good news was sure! To-day, something seemed to cheer her, in spite of Philip's depression. Perhaps it was spring, glorious spring! March had come in as a veritable lamb, and after balmy days Isabel dreaded lowering clouds and rain. As long as she could drive Philip over the country time must appear to pass naturally, while in temporary confinement it would be harder to keep up pretenses. Already what is known in California as a "weather breeder" seemed to overcharge the senses, and even as Isabel left the foothills for the the homeward down-grade spin she felt a change. By early evening clouds were forming above the mountains; next day the sun refused to shine, and by night it rained so hard that March took on an Eastern temper and announced a storm. Isabel was disturbed at the prospect of seclusion. Once she had loved rain as well as sunshine, but now she listened to the incessant downpour with sinking heart. If only the publisher's letter would come. She realized anew her husband's strange condition, which instead of lifting was getting worse. Despondency was gnawing at his self-respect. He was ill, shattered beyond his own control. And his wife felt powerless to call a physician. For Philip had been obdurate with their home-coming, had refused to consult a doctor. Isabel feared to press the matter, yet wondered if she were wise to wait. Perhaps Philip's sudden fall had been more than mere fainting! The shock of public dishonor might have broken a blood vessel of his brain—a vessel so tiny that consciousness had soon returned. She told herself that at the end of the storm she would unburden her full story to a reliable specialist, then bring him to see her husband. She could no longer endure the strain alone. The determination brought her comfort, while with the force of her definite will she began to plan for intervening hours of rain. First of all, the open fire of the living-room should not die down a moment. Like a vestal watching her lamp, she piled on wood until the dark paneled walls reflected the glow of a rising blaze. Then she enticed Philip and Reginald and madame about the hearth. Cheer within made compelling contrast to a dreary outside. And all day long she strove to divert her husband's mind from desperate musing. Madame read in French, or the boy manipulated toy automobiles between the rugs; and when these things failed, the latest liveliest music was run off on a really fine mechanical piano which until now had been practically forgotten. By early bedtime the strenuous day seemed an improvement on previous ones with pensive opportunity in the open. Isabel was hopeful, glad to believe that Philip would sleep. She felt weary herself, and sank to rest without the usual effort of nights past, and rain fell on.