the servant was waiting. That last act of mercy was not left to a
servant. With sisterly tenderness, Stella took his hand and led

him away. "I shall remember you gratefully as long as I live,"
she said to him when the carriage door was closed. He waved his

hand at the window, and she saw him no more.
She returned to the study.

The relief of tears had not come to Romayne. He had dropped into
a chair when Penrose left him. In stony silence he sat there, his

head down, his eyes dry and staring. The miserable days of their
estrangement were forgotten by his wife in the moment when she

looked at him. She knelt by his side and lifted his head a little
and laid it on her bosom. Her heart was full--she let the caress

plead for her silently. He felt it; his cold fingers pressed her
hand thankfully; but he said nothing. After a long interval, the

first outward expression of sorrow that fell from his lips showed
that he was still thinking of Penrose.

"Every blessing falls away from me," he said. "I have lost my
best friend."

Years afterward Stella remembered those words, and the tone in
which he had spoken them.

CHAPTER VII.
THE IMPULSIVE SEX.

AFTER a lapse of a few days, Father Benwell was again a visitor
at Ten Acres Lodge--by Romayne's invitation. The priest occupied

the very chair, by the study fireside, in which Penrose had been
accustomed to sit.

"It is really kind of you to come to me," said Romayne, "so soon
after receiving my acknowledgment of your letter. I can't tell

you how I was touched by the manner in which you wrote of
Penrose. To my shame I confess it, I had no idea that you were so

warmly attached to him."
"I hardly knew it myself, Mr. Romayne, until our dear Arthur was

taken away from us."
If you used your influence, Father Benwell, is there no hope that

you might yet persuade him--?"
"To withdraw from the Mission? Oh, Mr. Romayne, don't you know

Arthur's character better than that? Even his gentle temper has
its resolute side. The zeal of the first martyrs to Christianity

is the zeal that burns in that noble nature. The Mission has been
the dream of his life--it is endeared to him by the very dangers

which we dread. Persuade Arthur to desert the dear and devoted
colleagues who have opened their arms to him? I might as soon

persuade that statue in the garden to desert its pedestal, and
join us in this room. Shall we change the sad subject? Have you

received the book which I sent you with my letter?"
Romayne took up the book from his desk. Before he could speak of

it some one called out briskly, on the other side of the door:
"May I come in?"--and came in, without waiting to be asked. Mrs.

Eyrecourt, painted and robed for the morning--wafting perfumes as
she moved--appeared in the study. She looked at the priest, and

lifted her many-ringed hands with a gesture of coquettish terror.
"Oh, dear me! I had no idea you were here, Father Benwell. I ask

ten thousand pardons. Dear and admirable Romayne, you don't look
as if you were pleased to see me. Good gracious! I am not

interrupting a confession, am I?"
Father Benwell (with his paternal smile in perfect order)

resigned his chair to Mrs. Eyrecourt. The traces of her illness
still showed themselves in an intermittent trembling of her head

and her hands. She had entered the room, strongly suspecting that
the process of conversion might be proceeding in the absence of

Penrose, and determined to interrupt it. Guided by his subtle
intelligence, Father Benwell penetrated her motive as soon as she

opened the door. Mrs. Eyrecourt bowed graciously, and took the
offered chair. Father Benwell sweetened his paternal smile and

offered to get a footstool.
"How glad I am," he said, "to see you in your customary good

spirits! But wasn't it just a little malicious to talk of
interrupting a confession? As if Mr. Romayne was one of Us! Queen

Elizabeth herself could hardly have said a sharper thing to a
poor Catholic priest."

"You clever creature!" said Mrs. Eyrecourt. "How easily you see
through a simple woman like me! There--I give you my hand to kiss

and I will never try to deceive you again. Do you know, Father
Benwell, a most extraordinary wish has suddenly come to me.

Please don't be offended. I wish you were a Jew."
"May I ask why?" Father Benwell inquired, with an apostolic

suavity worthy of the best days of Rome.
Mrs. Eyrecourt explained herself with the modest self-distrust of

a maiden of fifteen. "I am really so ignorant, I hardly know how
to put it. But learned persons have told me that it is the

peculiarity of the Jews--may I say, the amiable
peculiarity?--never to make converts. It would be so nice if you

would take a leaf out of their book, when we have the happiness
of receiving you here. My livelyimagination pictures you in a

double character. Father Benwell everywhere else; and--say, the
patriarch Abraham at Ten Acres Lodge."

Father Benwell lifted his persuasive hands in courteous protest.
"My dear lady! pray make your mind easy. Not one word on the

subject of religion has passed between Mr. Romayne and myself--"
"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Eyrecourt interposed, "I am afraid I

fail to follow you. My silent son-in-law looks as if he longed to
smother me, and my attention is naturally distracted. You were

about to say--?"
"I was about to say, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt, that you are alarming

yourself without any reason. Not one word, on any controversial
subject, has passed--"

Mrs. Eyrecourt cocked her head, with the artless vivacity of a
bird. "Ah, but it might, though!" she suggested, slyly.

Father Benwell once more remonstrated in dumb show, and Romayne
lost his temper.

"Mrs. Eyrecourt!" he cried, sternly.
Mrs. Eyrecourt screamed, and lifted her hands to her ears. "I am

not deaf, dear Romayne, and I am not to be put down by any
ill-timed exhibition of, what I may call, domestic ferocity.

Father Benwell sets you an example of Christian moderation. Do,
please, follow it."

Romayne refused to follow it.
"Talk on any other topic that you like, Mrs. Eyrecourt. I request

you--don't oblige me to use a harder word--I request you to spare
Father Benwell and myself any further expression of your opinion

on controversial subjects."
A son-in-law may make a request, and a mother-in-law may decline

to comply. Mrs. Eyrecourt declined to comply.
"No, Romayne, it won't do. I may lament your unhappytemper, for

my daughter's sake--but I know what I am about, and you can't
provoke me. Our reverend friend and I understand each other. He

will make allowances for a sensitive woman, who has had sad
experience of conversions in her own household. My eldest

daughter, Father Benwell--a poor foolish creature--was converted
into a nunnery. The last time I saw her (she used to be sweetly

pretty; my dear husband quite adored her)--the last time I saw
her she had a red nose, and, what is even more revolting at her

age, a double chi n. She received me with her lips pursed up, and
her eyes on the ground, and she was insolent enough to say that

she would pray for me. I am not a furious old man with a long
white beard, and I don't curse my daughter and rush out into a

thunderstorm afterward--but _I_ know what King Lear felt, and _I_
have struggled with hysterics just as he did. With your wonderful

insight into human nature, I am sure you will sympathize with and
forgive me. Mr. Penrose, as my daughter tells me, behaved in the

most gentleman-like manner. I make the same appeal to your kind
forbearance. The bare prospect of our dear friend here becoming a