“It isn’t only the dance,” she said. He was looking pale and ill. She went about the familiar home with a clearer and clearer sense of inevitable conclusions. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. Distress, deep-rooted, and age old. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. " "My confessor!" ejaculated the knight, in the extremity of surprise; "has he betrayed his sacred trust?" "He has," replied the other, grinning; "and this will be a caution to you in future, how you confide a secret of consequence to a priest. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know.
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