Yet to-day there were both in herself and Manisty hidden forces of fever and unrest which made the pure idealism, the intellectual tragedy of the priest almost unbearable.

Neither--for different and hidden reasons--could respond; and it was an infinite relief to both when the old man at last rose to take his leave.
They accompanied him through the library to the glass passage.
'Keep me informed,' said Manisty, wringing him by the hand; 'and tell me if there is anything I can do.' Eleanor said some parting words of sympathy.

The priest bowed to her with a grave courtesy in reply.
'It will be as God wills,' he said gently; and then went his way in a sad abstraction.
Eleanor was left a moment alone.

She put her hands over her heart, and pressed them there.

'He suffers from such high things!'-- she said to herself in a sudden passion of misery--'and I ?' * * * * * Manisty came hurrying back from the staircase, and crossed the library to the passage-room beyond.