listlessly over the arm of the chair.
Later in the evening, a note from Winterfield was left by

messenger at the priest's lodgings. The writer announced, with
renewed expressions of regret, that he would be again absent from

London on the next day, but that he hoped to return to the hotel
and receive his guest on the evening of the day after.

Father Benwell rightly conjectured that Winterfield's destination
was the town in which his wife had died.

His object in taking the journey was not, as the priest supposed,
to address inquiries to the rector and the landlady, who had been

present at the fatal illness and the death--but to justify his
wife's last expression of belief in the mercy and compassion of

the man whom she had injured. On that "nameless grave," so sadly
and so humbly referred to in the confession, he had resolved to

place a simple stone cross, giving to her memory the name which
she had shrunk from profaning in her lifetime. When he had

written the brief inscription which recorded the death of "Emma,
wife of Bernard Winterfield," and when he had knelt for a while

by the low turf mound, his errand had come to its end. He thanked
the good rector; he left gifts with the landlady and her

children, by which he was gratefully remembered for many a year
afterward; and then, with a heart relieved, he went back to

London.
Other men might have made their sad little pilgrimage alone.

Winterfield took his dog with him. "I must have something to
love," he said to the rector, "at such a time as this."

CHAPTER IV.
FATHER BENWELL'S CORRESPONDENCE.

_To the Secretary, S. J., Rome._
WHEN I wrote last, I hardly thought I should trouble you again so

soon. The necessity has, however, arisen. I must ask for
instructions, from our Most Reverend General, on the subject of

Arthur Penrose.
I believe that I informed you that I decided to defer my next

visit to Ten Acres Lodge for two or three days, in order that
Winterfield (if he intended to do so) might have time to

communicate with Mrs. Romayne, after his return from the country.
Naturally enough, perhaps, considering the delicacy of the

subject, he has not taken me into his confidence. I can only
guess that he has maintained the same reserve with Mrs. Romayne.

My visit to the Lodge was duly paid this afternoon.
I asked first, of course, for the lady of the house, and hearing

she was in the grounds, joined her there. She looked ill and
anxious, and she received me with rigid politeness. Fortunately,

Mrs. Eyrecourt (now convalescent) was staying at Ten Acres, and
was then taking the air in her chair on wheels. The good lady's

nimble and discursive tongue offered me an opportunity of
referring, in the most innocent manner possible, to Winterfield's

favorable opinion of Romayne's pictures. I need hardly say that I
looked at Romayne's wife when I mentioned the name. She turned

pale--probably fearing that I had some knowledge of her letter
warning Winterfield not to trust me. If she had already been

informed that he was not to be blamed, but to be pitied, in the
matter of the marriage at Brussels, she would have turned red.

Such, at least, is my experience, drawn from recollections of
other days. *

The ladies having served my purpose, I ventured into the house,
to pay my respects to Romayne.

He was in the study, and his excellent friend and secretary was
with him. After the first greetings Penrose left us. His manner

told me plainly that there was something wrong. I asked no
questions--waiting on the chance that Romayne might enlighten me.

"I hope you are in better spirits, now that you have your old
companion with you," I said.

"I am very glad to have Penrose with me," he answered. And then
he frowned and looked out of the window at the two ladies in the

grounds.
It occurred to me that Mrs. Eyrecourt might be occupying the

customary false position of a mother-in-law. I was mistaken. He
was not thinking of his wife's mother--he was thinking of his

wife.
"I suppose you know that Penrose had an idea of converting me?"

he said, suddenly.
I was perfectly candid with him--I said I knew it, and approved

of it. "May I hope that Arthur has succeeded in convincing you?"
I ventured to add.

"He might have succeeded, Father Benwell, if he had chosen to go
on."

This reply, as you may easily imagine, took me by surprise.
"Are you really so obdurate that Arthur despairs of your

conversion?" I asked.
"Nothing of the sort! I have thought and thought of it--and I can

tell you I was more than ready to meet him half way."
"Then where is the obstacle?" I exclaimed.

He pointed thro ugh the window to his wife. "There is the
obstacle," he said, in a tone of ironical resignation.

Knowing Arthur's character as I knew it, I at last understood
what had happened. For a moment I felt really angry. Under these

circumstances, the wise course was to say nothing, until I could
be sure of speaking with exemplary moderation. It doesn't do for

a man in my position to show anger.
Romayne went on.

"We talked of my wife, Father Benwell, the last time you were
here. You only knew, then, that her reception of Mr. Winterfield

had determined him never to enter my house again. By way of
adding to your information on the subject of 'petticoat

government,' I may now tell you that Mrs. Romayne has forbidden
Penrose to proceed with the attempt to convert me. By common

consent, the subject is never mentioned between us." The bitter
irony of his tone, thus far, suddenly disappeared. He spoke

eagerly and anxiously. "I hope you are not angry with Arthur?" he
said.

By this time my little fit of ill-temper was at an end. I
answered--and it was really in a certain sense true--"I know

Arthur too well to be angry with him."
Romayne seemed to be relieved. "I only troubled you with this

last domestic incident," he resumed, "to bespeak your indulgence
for Penrose. I am getting learned in the hierarchy of the Church,

Father Benwell! You are the superior of my dear little friend,
and you exercise authority over him. Oh, he is the kindest and

best of men! It is not his fault. He submits to Mrs.
Romayne--against his own better conviction--in the honest belief

that he consults the interests of our married life."
I don't think I misinterpret the state of Romayne's mind, and

mislead you, when I express my belief that this second indiscreet
interference of his wife between his friend and himself will

produce the very result which she dreads. Mark my words, written
after the closest observation of him--this new irritation of

Romayne's sensitive self-respect will hasten his conversion.
You will understand that the one alternative before me, after

what has happened, is to fill the place from which Penrose has
withdrawn. I abstained from breathing a word of this to Romayne.

It is he, if I can manage it, who must invite me to complete the
work of conversion--and, besides, nothing can be done until the

visit of Penrose has come to an end. Romayne's secret sense of
irritation may be safely left to develop itself, with time to

help it.
I changed the conversation to the subject of his literary labors.

The present state of his mind is not favorable to work of that