FATHER BENWELL rose, and welcomed the visitor with his paternal
smile. "I am heartily glad to see you," he said--and held out his

hand with a becoming mixture of dignity and cordiality. Penrose
lifted the offered hand respectfully to his lips. As one of the

"Provincials" of the Order, Father Benwell occupied a high place
among the English Jesuits. He was accustomed to acts of homage

offered by his younger brethren to their spiritual chief. "I fear
you are not well," he proceeded gently. "Your hand is feverish,

Arthur."
"Thank you, Father--I am as well as usual."

"Depression of spirits, perhaps?" Father Benwell persisted.
Penrose admitted it with a passing smile. "My spirits are never

very lively," he said.
Father Benwell shook his head in gentle disapproval of a

depressed state of spirits in a young man. "This must be
corrected," he remarked. "Cultivate cheerfulness" target="_blank" title="n.高兴，愉快">cheerfulness, Arthur. I am

myself, thank God, a naturally cheerful man. My mind reflects, in
some degree (and reflects gratefully), the brightness and beauty

which are part of the great scheme of creation. A similar
disposition is to be cultivated--I know instances of it in my own

experience. Add one more instance, and you will really gratify
me. In its seasons of rejoicing, our Church is eminently

cheerful. Shall I add another encouragement? A great trust is
about to be placed in you. Be sociallyagreeable, or you will

fail to justify the trust. This is Father Benwell's little
sermon. I think it has a merit, Arthur--it is a sermon soon

over."
Penrose looked up at his superior, eager to hear more.

He was a very young man. His large, thoughtful, well-opened gray
eyes, and his habitualrefinement and modesty of manner, gave a

certain attraction to his personal appearance, of which it stood
in some need. In stature he was little and lean; his hair had

become prematurely thin over his broad forehead; there were
hollows already in his cheeks, and marks on either side of his

thin, delicate lips. He looked like a person who had passed many
miserable hours in needlessly despairing of himself and his

prospects. With all this, there was something in him so
irresistibly truthful and sincere--so suggestive, even where he

might be wrong, of a purelyconscientiousbelief in his own
errors--that he attached people to him wit hout an effort, and

often without being aware of it himself. What would his friends
have said if they had been told that the religious enthusiasm of

this gentle, self-distrustful, melancholy man, might, in its very
innocence of suspicion and self-seeking, be perverted to

dangerous uses in unscrupulous hands? His friends would, one and
all, have received the scandalous assertion with contempt; and

Penrose himself, if he had heard of it, might have failed to
control his temper for the first time in his life.

"May I ask a question, without giving offense?" he said, timidly.
Father Benwell took his hand. "My dear Arthur, let us open our

minds to each other without reserve. What is your question?"
"You have spoken, Father, of a great trust that is about to be

placed in me."
"Yes. You are anxious, no doubt, to hear what it is?"

"I am anxious to know, in the first place, if it requires me to
go back to Oxford."

Father Benwell dropped his young friend's hand. "Do you dislike
Oxford?" he asked, observing Penrose attentively.

"Bear with me, Father, if I speak too confidently. I dislike the
deception which has obliged me to conceal that I am a Catholic

and a priest."
Father Benwell set this little difficulty right, with the air of

a man who could make benevolentallowance for unreasonable
scruples. "I think, Arthur, you forget two important

considerations," he said. "In the first place, you have a
dispensation from your superiors, which absolves you of all

responsibility in respect of the concealment that you have
practiced. In the second place, we could only obtain information

of the progress which our Church is silently making at the
University by employing you in the capacity of--let me say, an

independent observer. However, if it will contribute to your ease
of mind, I see no objection to informing you that you will _not_

be instructed to return to Oxford. Do I relieve you?"
There could be no question of it. Penrose breathed more freely,

in every sense of the word.
"At the same time," Father Benwell continued, "let us not

misunderstand each other. In the new sphere of action which we
design for you, you will not only be at liberty to acknowledge

that you are a Catholic, it will be absolutely necessary that you
should do so. But you will continue to wear the ordinary dress of

an English gentleman, and to preserve the strictest secrecy on
the subject of your admission to the priesthood, until you are

further advised by myself. Now, dear Arthur, read that paper. It
is the necessary preface to all that I have yet to say to you."

The "paper" contained a few pages of manuscript relating the
early history of Vange Abbey, in the days of the monks, and the

circumstances under which the property was confiscated to lay
uses in the time of Henry the Eighth. Penrose handed back the

little narrative, vehemently expressing his sympathy with the
monks, and his detestation of the King.

"Compose yourself, Arthur," said Father Benwell, smiling
pleasantly. "We don't mean to allow Henry the Eighth to have it

all his own way forever."
Penrose looked at his superior in blank bewilderment. His

superior withheld any further information for the present.
"Everything in its turn," the discreet Father resumed; "the turn

of explanation has not come yet. I have something else to show
you first. One of the most interesting relics in England. Look

here."
He unlocked a flat mahogany box, and displayed to view some

writings on vellum, evidently of great age.
"You have had a little sermon already," he said. "You shall have

a little story now. No doubt you have heard of Newstead
Abbey--famous among the readers of poetry as the residence of

Byron? King Henry treated Newstead exactly as he treated Vange
Abbey! Many years since, the lake at Newstead was dragged, and

the brass eagle which had served as the lectern in the old church
was rescued from the waters in which it had lain for centuries. A

secret receptacle was discovered in the body of the eagle, and
the ancient title-deeds of the Abbey were found in it. The monks

had taken that method of concealing the legal proof of their
rights and privileges, in the hope--a vain hope, I need hardly

say--that a time might come when Justice would restore to them
the property of which they had been robbed. Only last summer, one

of our bishops, administering a northern diocese, spoke of these
circumstances to a devout Catholic friend, and said he thought it

possible that the precaution taken by the monks at Newstead might
also have been taken by the monks at Vange. The friend, I should

tell you, was an enthusiast. Saying nothing to the bishop (whose
position and responsibilities he was bound to respect), he took

into his confidence persons whom he could trust. One night--in
the absence of the present proprietor, or, I should rather say,

the present usurper, of the estate--the lake at Vange was
privately dragged, with a result that proved the bishop's

conjecture to be right. Read those valuable documents. Knowing
your strict sense of honor, my son, and your admirable tenderness

of conscience, I wish you to be satisfied of the title of the
Church to the lands of Vange, by evidence which is beyond

dispute."
With this little preface, he waited while Penrose read the

title-deeds. "Any doubt on your mind?" he asked, when the reading
had come to an end.

"Not the shadow of a doubt."
"Is the Church's right to the property clear?"

"As clear, Father, as words can make it."
"Very good. We will lock up the documents. Arbitrary

confiscation, Arthur, even on the part of a king, cannot override