“Yes.  I found her at first very despairing—­and extremely difficult to manage.  She regretted she had written to me, and neither Lady Alice nor I could get her to talk.  But one day”—­the old man turned away, looking into the fire, with his back to Ashe, and with difficulty pursued his story—­“one day, whether it was, the sight of a paralyzed child that used to come to Lady Alice’s lace-class, or some impression from the service of the mass to which she often goes in the early mornings with her sister, I don’t know, but she sent for me—­and—­and broke down entirely.  She implored me to see you, and to ask you if she might live at Haggart, near the child’s grave.  She told me that according to every doctor she has seen she is doomed, physically.  But I don’t think she wants to work upon your pity.  She herself declares that she has much more vitality than people think, and that the doctors may be all wrong.  So that you are not to take that into account.  But if you will so far forgive her as to let her live at Haggart, and occasionally to go and see her, that would be the only happiness to which she could now look forward, and she promises that she will follow your wishes in every respect, and will not hinder or persecute you in any way.”

Ashe threw up his hands in a melancholy gesture.  The Dean understood it to mean a disbelief in the ability of the person promising to keep such an engagement.  His face flushed—­he looked uncertainly at Ashe.

“For my part,” he said, quickly, “I am not going to advise you for a moment to trust to any such promise.”

Rising from his seat, Ashe began to pace the room.  The Dean followed him with his eyes, which kindled more and more.

“But,” he resumed, “I none the less urge and implore you to grant Lady Kitty’s prayer.”

Ashe slightly shook his head.  The little Dean drew himself together.

“May I speak to you—­with a full frankness?  I have known and loved you from a boy.  And”—­he stopped a moment, then said, simply—­“I am a Christian minister.”

Ashe, with a sad and charming courtesy, laid his hand on the old man’s arm.

“I can only be grateful to you,” he said, and stood waiting.

“At least you will understand me,” said the Dean.  “You are not one of the small souls.  Well—­here it is!  Lady Kitty has been an unfaithful wife.  She does not attempt to deny or cover it.  But in my belief she loves you still, and has always loved you.  And when you married her, you must, I think, have realized that you were running no ordinary risks.  The position and antecedents of her mother—­the bringing up of the poor child herself—­the wildness of her temperament, and the absence of anything like self-discipline and self-control, must surely have made you anxious?  I certainly remember that Lady Tranmore was full of fears.”

He looked for a reply.

“Yes,” said Ashe, “I was anxious.  Or, rather, I saw the risks clearly.  But I was in love, and I thought that love could do everything.”