"Yes," he replied, "I think that I do. You feel as if this fortune had been bought at a certain price, and therefore it has lost value in your eyes. That is purely a matter of feeling, with which the abstract question involved has nothing to do—unless there is some point on which your conscience accuses you of wrong-doing."
She shook her head. "There is none directly touching the money. But, indirectly, the money was the root of everything—of a choice which has brought me no happiness."
"And you think, perhaps, that by resigning it you may recover what you have lost?"
She colored vividly. "No," she said quickly, almost indignantly. "I have no thought of the kind. That choice is made irrevocably. I can recover nothing but my own self-respect."
Father Byrne looked a little puzzled. "I fail to see," he said, "how your self-respect has been lost by having a fortune left you which you declare you did nothing to secure. But that is a question for yourself alone, since it is evidently a matter of feeling. The moral point I have answered to the best of my ability."
"You think that I ought to retain part of this fortune?"
"I cannot go so far as to say that you ought. There is no moral obligation binding you to do so, as far as I am aware of the circumstances. I can only say that it is clearly right for you to do so—if you think fit."
Evidently after this there was no more to be said; and Marion rose to take leave, saying a few words of sincere thanks for the kindness with which he had received her. "It has been very good of you to advise me," she said, gratefully. "I shall never forget it."
"I only hope that the advice may be of some use to you," answered Father Byrne. "But it will be better if you ask God to guide and direct you."
"Well, are you satisfied?" asked Helen, when they found themselves outside. "Have you decided what to do?"