her. "I remember the time, Lewis," she said, "when you would have

been more indulgent toward my errors--even if I am wrong."
That simple appeal touched his better nature. "I don't mean to be

hard on you, Stella," he answered. "It is a little irritating to
hear you say that you distrust the most devoted and most

affectionate friend that man ever had. Why can't I love my wife,
and love my friend, too? You don't know, when I am trying to get

on with my book, how I miss the help and sympathy of Penrose. The
very sound of his voice used to encourage me. Come, Stella, give

me a kiss--and let us, as the children say, make it up!"
He rose from his writing-table. She met him more than half way,

and pressed all her love--and perhaps a little of her fear--on
his lips. He returned the kiss as warmly as it was given; and

then, unhappily for both of them, he went back to the subject.
"My own love," he said, "try to like my friend for my sake; and

be tolerant of other forms of Christianity besides the form which
happens to be yours."

Her smiling lips closed; she turned from him. With the sensitive
selfishness of a woman's love, she looked on Penrose as a robber

who had stolen the sympathies which should have been wholly hers.
As she moved away, her quick observation noticed the open book on

the desk, with notes and lines in pencil on the margin of the
page. What had Romayne been reading which interested him in

_that_ way? If he had remained silent, she would have addressed
the inquiry to him openly. But he was hurt on his side by the

sudden manner of her withdrawal from him. He spoke--and his tone
was colder than ever.

"I won't attempt to combat your prejudices," he said. "But one
thing I must seriously ask of you. When my friend Penrose comes

here to-morrow, don't treat him as you treated Mr. Winterfield."
There was a momentary paleness in her face which looked like

fear, but it passed away again. She confronted him firmly with
steady eyes.

"Why do you refer again to that?" she asked. "Is--" (she
hesitated and recovered herself)--"Is Mr. Winterfield another

devoted friend of yours?"
He walked to the door, as if he could hardly trust his temper if

he answered her--stopped--and, thinking better of it, turned
toward her again.

"We won't quarrel, Stella," he rejoined; "I will only say I am
sorry you don't appreciate my forbearance. Your reception of Mr.

Winterfield has lost me the friendship of a man whom I sincerely
liked, and who might have assisted my literary labors. You were

ill at the time, and anxious about Mrs. Eyrecourt. I respected
your devotion to your mother. I remembered your telling me, when

you first went away to nurse her, that your conscience accused
you of having sometimes thoughtlessly neglected your mother in

her days of health and good spirits, and I admired the motive of
atonement which took you to her bedside. For those reasons I

shrank from saying a word that might wound you. But, because I
was silent, it is not the less true that you surprised and

disappointed me. Don't do it again! Whatever you may privately
think of Catholic priests, I once more seriously request you not

to let Penrose see it."
He left the room.

She stood, looking after him as he closed the door, like a woman
thunderstruck. Never yet had he looked at her as he looked when

he spoke his last warning words. With a heavy sigh she roused
herself. The vague dread with which his tone rather than his

words had inspired her, strangely associated itself with the
momentarycuriosity which she had felt on noticing the annotated

book that lay on his desk.
She snatched up the volume and looked at the open page. It

contained the closing paragraphs of an eloquent attack on
Protestantism, from the Roman Catholic point of view. With

trembling hands she turned back to the title-page. It presented
this written inscription: "To Lewis Romayne from his attached

friend and servant, Arthur Penrose."
"God help me!" she said to herself; "the priest has got between

us already!"
CHAPTER II.

A CHRISTIAN JESUIT.
ON the next day Penrose arrived on his visit to Romayne.

The affectionate meeting between the two men tested Stella's
self-control as it had never been tried yet. She submitted to the

ordeal with the courage of a woman whose happiness depended on
her outward graciousness of manner toward her husband's friend.

Her reception of Penrose, viewed as an act of refined courtesy,
was beyond reproach. When she found her opportunity of leaving

the room, Romayne gratefully opened the door for her. "Thank
you!" he whispered, with a look which was intended to reward her.

She only bowed to him, and took refuge in her own room.
Even in trifles, a woman's nature is degraded by the falsities of

language and manner which the artificial condition of modern
society exacts from her. When she yields herself to more serious

deceptions, intended to protect her dearest domestic interests,
the mischief is increased in proportion. Deceit, which is the

natural weapon of defense used by the weak creature against the
strong, then ceases to be confined within the limits assigned by

the sense of self-respect and by the restraints of education. A
woman in this position will descend, self- blinded, to acts of

meanness which would be revolting to her if they were related of
another person.

Stella had already begun the process of self-degradation by
writingsecretly to Winterfield. It was only to warn him of the

danger of trusting Father Benwell--but it was a letter, claiming
him as her accomplice in an act of deception. That morning she

had received Penrose with the outward cordialities of welcome
which are offered to an old and dear friend. And now, in the safe

solitude of her room, she had fallen to a lower depth still. She
was deliberatelyconsidering the safest means of acquainting

herself with the confidential conversation which Romayne and
Penrose would certainly hold when she left them together. "He

will try to set my husband against me; and I have a right to know
what means he uses, in my own defense." With that thought she

reconciled herself to an action which she would have despised if
she had heard of it as the action of another woman.

It was a beauti ful autumn day, brightened by clear sunshine,
enlivened by crisp air. Stella put on her hat and went out for a

stroll in the grounds.
While she was within view from the windows of the servants'

offices she walked away from the house. Turning the corner of a
shrubbery, she entered a winding path, on the other side, which

led back to the lawn under Romayne's study window. Garden chairs
were placed here and there. She took one of them, and seated

herself--after a last moment of honorable hesitation--where she
could hear the men's voices through the open window above her.

Penrose was speaking at the time.
"Yes. Father Benwell has granted me a holiday," he said; "but I

don't come here to be an idle man. You must allow me to employ my
term of leave in the pleasantest of all ways. I mean to be your

secretary again."
Romayne sighed. "Ah, if you knew how I have missed you!"

(Stella waited, in breathlessexpectation, for what Penrose would
say to this. Would he speak of _her?_ No. There was a natural

tact and delicacy in him which waited for the husband to
introduce the subject.)

Penrose only said, "How is the great work getting on?"
The answer was sternlyspoken in one word--"Badly!"

"I am surprised to hear that, Romayne."
"Why? Were you as innocentlyhopeful as I was? Did you expect my

experience of married life to help me in writing my book?"
Penrose replied after a pause, speaking a little sadly. "I

expected your married life to encourage you in all your highest
aspirations," he said.