"I'm wondering," said John Flint. "I wish I hadn't got that hunch!"
I did not see Mary Virginia again for some time. Just then I moved breathlessly in a horrid round of sickbeds, for the wave had reached its height; already it had swept seventeen of my flock out of time into eternity.
I came home on one of the last of those heavy evenings, to find Laurence waiting for me in my study. He was standing in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Padre," said he by way of greeting, "have you seen Mary Virginia lately? Has Madame?"
"No, except for a chance meeting one morning on the street. But she has been sending me help right along, bless her."
"Has Madame heard anything from her, Padre?"
"No, I don't think so. But we've been frightfully busy of late, you understand."
"No, neither of you know," said Laurence, in a low voice. "You wouldn't know. Padre, I—don't look at me like that, please; I'm not ill. But, without reason—swear to you before God, without any reason whatever, that I can conjure up—she has thrown me over, jilted me—Mary Virginia, Padre! And I'm to forget her. I'm to forget her, you understand? Because she can't marry me." He spoke in a level, quiet, matter of fact voice. Then laughter shook him like a nausea.
I laid my hand upon him. "Now tell me," said I, "what you have to tell me."
"I've really told you all I know," said Laurence. "Day before yesterday she sent for me. You can't think how happy it made me to have her send for me, how happy I've been since I knew she cared! I felt as if there wasn't anything I couldn't do. There was nothing too great to be accomplished—