Now and then he made the night journey to Darreuch Castle and each time she met him with her frank childlike kiss he was more amazed and uplifted by her aspect. Their quiet talks together were wonderful things to remember. She had done much fine and dainty work which she showed him with unaffected sweetness. She told him stories of Dowie and Mademoiselle and how they had taught her to sew and embroider. Once she told him the story of her first meeting with Donal—but she passed over the tragedy of their first parting.
"It was too sad," she said.
He noticed that she never spoke of sad and dark hours. He was convinced that she purposely avoided them and he was profoundly glad.
"I know," she said once, "that you do not want me to talk to you about the War."
"Thank you for knowing it," he answered. "I come here on a pilgrimage to a shrine where peace is. Darreuch is my shrine."
"It is mine, too," was her low response.
"Yes, I think it is," his look at her was deep. Suddenly but gently he laid his hand on her shoulder.
"I beg you," he said fervently, "I beg you never to allow yourself to think of it. Blot the accursed thing out of the Universe while—you are here. For you there must be no war."
"How kind his face looked," was Robin's thought as he hesitated a second and then went on:
"I know very little of such—sacrosanct things as mothers and children, but lately I have had fancies of a place for them where there are only smiles and happiness and beauty—as a beginning."