The tall, soldierly young figure was standing motionless and stiff, as though on guard, on the river-shore beyond the bend. Whatever apprehensions, whatever regrets, whatever fears may have warred within Beauvayse, whatever consciousness may have been his of having taken an irrevocable step, bound to bring disgrace and reproach, sorrow, and repentance upon the innocent as upon the guilty, he showed no sign as he came to meet them, and lifted the Service felt from his golden head, and held out an eager hand for Lynette's. She gave it shyly, and with the thrill of contact Beauvayse's last scruple fled. He turned his beautiful, flushed face and shining eyes upon the Mother, and asked with grave simplicity:
"Ma'am, is not this mine?"
"First tell me, do you know that there is nothing in it?"
Her stern eyes searched his. He laughed and said, as he kissed the slender hand:
"It holds everything for me!"
"Another question. Are you aware that my ward is a Catholic?"
"My wife will be of my mother's faith. I would not have her of any other."
The Mother gave Beauvayse her own hand then, that was marred by many deeds of charity, but still beautiful.
Those two, linked together for a moment in their mutual love of her, made for Lynette a picture never to be forgotten. Then Beauvayse said, in the boyish tone that made the man irresistible:
"You have made me awfully happy!"