Don't be impatient with her! Put away from you that besetting
temptation to speak in irony--it is so easy to take that tone,

and sometimes so cruel. I am only a looker-on, I know. Domestic
happiness can never be the happiness of _my_ life. But I have

observed my fellow-creatures of all degrees--and this, I tell
you, is the result. The largest number of happy men are the

husbands and fathers. Yes; I admit that they have terrible
anxieties--but they are fortified by unfailing compensations and

encouragements. Only the other day I met with a man who had
suffered the loss of fortune and, worse still, the loss of

health. He endured those afflictions so calmly that he surprised
me. 'What is the secret of your philosophy?' I asked. He

answered, 'I can bear anything while I have my wife and my
children.' Think of that, and judge for yourself how much

happiness you may have left yet ungathered in your married life."
(Those words touched Stella's higher nature, as the dew touches

the thirsty ground. Surely they were nobly spoken! How would her
husband receive them?)

"I must think with your mind, Penrose, before I can do what you
ask of me. Is there any method of transformation by which I can

change natures with you?" That was all he said--and he said it
despondingly.

Penrose understood, and felt for him.
"If there is anything in my nature, worthy to be set as an

example to you," he replied, "you know to what blessed influence
I owe self-discipline and serenity of mind. Remember what I said

when I left you in London, to go back to my friendless life. I
told you that I found, in the Faith I held, the one sufficient

consolation which helped me to bear my lot. And--if there came a
time of sorrow in the future--I entreated you to remember what I

had said. Have you remembered it?"
"Look at the book here on my desk--look at the other books,

within easy reach, on that table--are you satisfied?"
"More than satisfied. Tell me--do you feel nearer to an

understanding of the Faith to which I have tried to convert you?"
There was a pause. "Say that I do feel nearer," Romayne

resumed--"say that some of my objections are removed--are you
really as eager as ever to make a Catholic of me, now that I am a

married man?"
"I am even more eager," Penrose answered. "I have always believed

that your one sure way to happiness lay through your conversion.
Now, when I know, from what I have seen and heard in this room,

that you are not reconciled, as you should be, to your new life,
I am doubly confined in my belief. As God is my witness, I speak

sincerely. Hesitate no longer! Be converted, and be happy."
"Have you not forgotten something, Penrose?"

"What have I forgotten?"
"A serious consideration, perhaps. I have a Protestant wife."

"I have borne that in mind, Romayne, throughout our
conversation."

"And you still say--what you have just said?"
"With my whole heart, I say it! Be converted, and be happy. Be

happy, and you will be a good husband. I speak in your wife 's
interest as well as in yours. People who are happy in each

other's society, will yield a little on either side, even on
questions of religious belief. And perhaps there may follow a

more profitable result still. So far as I have observed, a good
husband's example is gladly followed by his wife. Don't think

that I am trying to persuade you against your will! I am only
telling you, in my own justification, from what motives of love

for yourself, and of true interest in your welfare, I speak. You
implied just now that you had still some objections left. If I

can remove them--well and good. If I fail--if you cannot act on
purely conscientiousconviction--I not only advise, I entreat

you, to remain as you are. I shall be the first to acknowledge
that you have done right."

(This moderation of tone would appeal irresistibly, as Stella
well knew, to her husband's ready appreciation of those good

qualities in others which he did not himself possess. Once more
her suspicion wronged Penrose. Had he his own interested motives

for pleading her cause? At the bare thought of it, she left her
chair and, standing under the window, boldly interrupted the

conversation by calling to Romayne.)
"Lewis!" she cried, "why do you stay indoors on this beautiful

day? I am sure Mr. Penrose would like a walk in the grounds."
Penrose appeared alone at the window. "You are quite right, Mrs.

Romayne," he said; "we will join you directly."
In a few minutes he turned the corner of the house, and met

Stella on the lawn. Romayne was not with him. "Is my husband not
coming with us?" she asked. "He will follow us," Penrose

answered. "I believe he has some letters to write."
Stella looked at him, suspecting some underhand exercise of

influence on her husband.
If she had been able to estimate the noble qualities in the

nature of Penrose, she might have done him the justice to arrive
at a truer conclusion. It was he who had asked leave (when Stella

had interrupted them) to take the opportunity of speaking alone
with Mrs. Romayne. He had said to his friend, "If I am wrong in

my anticipation of the effect of your change of religion on your
wife, let me find it out from herself. My one object is to act

justly toward you and toward her. I should never forgive myself
if I made mischief between you, no matter how innocent of any

evil intention I might be." Romayne had understood him. It was
Stella's misfortuneignorantly to misinterpret everything that

Penrose said or did, for the all-sufficient reason that he was a
Catholic priest. She had drawn the conclusion that her husband

had deliberately left her alone with Penrose, to be persuaded or
deluded into giving her sanction to aid the influence of the

priest. "They shall find they are mistaken," she thought to
herself.

"Have I interrupted an interesting conversation?" she inquired
abruptly. "When I asked you to come out, were you talking to my

husband about his historical work?"
"No, Mrs. Romayne; we were not speaking at that time of the

book."
"May I ask an odd question, Mr. Penrose?"

"Certainly!"
"Are you a very zealous Catholic?"

"Pardon me. I am a priest. Surely my profession speaks for me?"
"I hope you are not trying to convert my husband?"

Penrose stopped and looked at her attentively.
"Are you strongly opposed to your husband's conversion?" he

asked.
"As strongly," she answered, "as a woman can be."

"By religious conviction, Mrs. Romayne?"
"No. By experience."

Penrose started. "Is it indiscreet," he said gently, "to inquire
what your experience may have been?"

"I will tell you what my experience has been," Stella replied. "I
am ignorant of theological subtleties, and questions of doctrine

are quite beyond me. But this I do know. A well-meaning and
zealous Catholic shortened my father's life, and separated me

from an only sister whom I dearly loved. I see I shock you--and I
daresay you think I am exaggerating?"

"I hear what you say, Mrs. Romayne, with very great pain--I don't
presume to form any opinion thus far."

"My sad story can be told in a few words," Stella proceeded.
"When my elder sister was still a young girl, an aunt of ours (my