The priest stood up and put his hand on Mark's shoulder. "Do you mean that, my boy?"
"I do," replied Mark. "I told you in Washington that I never passed an open church door that my mind did not conjure up a beckoning hand behind it, and that I knew that some day I should see my mother's face behind the hand. I have seen the face. It was imagination, perhaps—in fact, I know it must have been—but it was mother's face—and I am coming home."
The last words were spoken softly, reverently, and together the priest and the penitent entered the church.
CHAPTER XXII
RUTH'S CONFESSION
Late that afternoon Mark sat alone in the great library at Killimaga, his head thrown back, his hands grasping the top of his chair. His thoughts were of the future, and he did not hear the light footsteps behind him. Then—two soft arms stole lightly around his neck, and Ruth's beautiful head was bowed until her lips touched his forehead. It was a kiss of benediction, speaking of things too holy for words.
He covered her hands with his own. "Ruth." The tones breathed a world of love.
"I am so happy," she murmured.
He started to rise, but one small hand, escaping from his grasp, rested on his head and held him firmly.