Stella resignedly took up the book again.
"I daresay you are right," she said. "Let us read our novel."

Before she had reached the end of the first page, her mind was
far away again from the unfortunate story. She was thinking of

that "other presentiment," which had formed the subject of her
mother's last satirical inquiry. The vague fear that had shaken

her when she had accidentally touched the French boy, on her
visit to Camp's Hill, still from time to time troubled her

memory. Even the event of his death had failed to dissipate the
delusion, which associated him with some undefined evil influence

that might yet assert itself. A superstitious forewarning of this
sort was a weakness new to her in her experience of herself. She

was heartilyashamed of it--and yet it kept its hold. Once more
the book dropped on her lap. She laid it aside, and walked

wearily to the window to look at the weather.
Almost at the same moment Mrs. Eyrecourt's maid disturbed her

mistress over the second volu me of the novel by entering the
room with a letter

"For me?" Stella asked, looking round from the window.
"No, ma'am--for Mrs. Eyrecourt."

The letter had been brought to the house by one of Lady Loring's
servants. In delivering it he had apparently given private

instructions to the maid. She laid her finger significantly on
her lips when she gave the letter to her mistress.

In these terms Lady Loring wrote:
"If Stella happens to be with you, when you receive my note,

don't say anything which will let her know that I am your
correspondent. She has always, poor dear, had an inveterate

distrust of Father Benwell; and, between ourselves, I am not sure
that she is quite so foolish as I once thought. The Father has

unexpectedly left us--with a well-framed excuse which satisfied
Lord Loring. It fails to satisfy Me. Not from any wonderful

exercise of penetration on my part, but in consequence of
something I have just heard in course of conversation with a

Catholic friend. Father Benwell, my dear, turns out to be a
Jesuit; and, what is more, a person of such high authority in the

Order, that his concealment of his rank, while he was with us,
must have been a matter of necessity. He must have had some very

serious motive for occupying a position so entirely beneath him
as his position in our house. I have not the shadow of a reason

for associating this startling discovery with dear Stella's
painful misgivings--and yet there is something in my mind which

makes me want to hear what Stella's mother thinks. Come and have
a talk about it as soon as you possibly can."

Mrs. Eyrecourt put the letter in her pocket smiling quietly to
herself.

Applying to Lady Loring's letter the infalliblesystem of
solution which she had revealed to her daughter, Mrs. Eyrecourt

solved the mystery of the priest's conduct without a moment's
hesitation. Lord Loring's check, in Father Benwell's pocket,

representing such a liberalsubscription that my lord was
reluctant to mention it to my lady--there was the reading of the

riddle. as plain as the sun at noonday! Would it be desirable to
enlighten Lady Loring as she had already enlightened Stella? Mrs.

Eyrecourt decided in the negative. As Roman Catholics, and as old
friends of Romayne, the Lorings naturally rejoiced in his

conversion. But as old friends also of Romayne's wife, they were
bound not to express their sentiments too openly. Feeling that

any discussion of the priest's motives would probably lead to the
delicate subject of the conversion, Mrs. Eyrecourt prudently

determined to let the matter drop. As a consequence of this
decision, Stella was left without the slightest warning of the

catastrophe which was now close at hand.
Mrs. Eyrecourt joined her daughter at the window.

"Well, my dear, is it clearing up? Shall we take a drive before
luncheon?"

"If you like, mama."
She turned to her mother as she answered.

The light of the clearing sky, at once soft and penetrating, fell
full on her. Mrs. Eyrecourt, looking at her as usual, suddenly

became serious: she studied her daughter's face with an eager and
attentive scrutiny.

"Do you see any extraordinary change in me?" Stella asked, with a
faint smile.

Instead of answering, Mrs. Eyrecourt put her arm round Stella
with a lovinggentleness, entirely at variance with any ordinary

expression of her character. The worldly mother's eyes rested
with a lingering tenderness on the daughter's face. "Stella!" she

said softly--and stopped, at a loss for words for the first time
in her life.

After a while, she began again. "Yes; I see a change in you," she
whispered--"an interesting change which tells me something. Can

you guess what it is?"
Stella's color rose brightly, and faded again.

She laid her head in silence on her mother's bosom. Worldly,
frivolous, self-interested, Mrs. Eyrecourt's nature was the

nature of a woman--and the one great trial and triumph of a
woman's life, appealing to her as a trial and a triumph soon to

come to her own child, touched fibers under the hardened surface
of her heart which were still unprofaned. "My poor darling," she

said, "have you told the good news to your husband?"
"No."

"Why not?"
"He doesn't care, now, for anything that I can tell him."

"Nonsense, Stella! You may win him back to you by a word--and do
you hesitate to say the word? _I_ shall tell him!"

Stella suddenly drew herself away from her mother's caressing
arm. "If you do," she cried, "no words can say how inconsiderate

and how cruel I shall think you. Promise--on your word of
honor--promise you will leave it to me!"

"Will you tell him, yourself--if I leave it to you?"
"Yes--at my own time. Promise!"

"Hush, hush! don't excite yourself, my love; I promise. Give me a
kiss. I declare I am agitated myself!" she exclaimed, falling

back into her customary manner. "Such a shock to my vanity,
Stella--the prospect of becoming a grandmother! I really must

ring for Matilda, and take a few drops of red lavender. Be
advised by me, my poor dear, and we will turn the priest out of

the house yet. When Romayne comes back from his ridiculous
Retreat--after his fasting and flagellation, and Heaven knows

what besides--_then_ bring him to his senses; then is the time to
tell him. Will you think of it?"

"Yes; I will think of it."
"And one word more, before Matilda comes in. Remember the vast

importance of having a male heir to Vange Abbey. On these
occasions you may practice with perfect impunity on the ignorance

of the men. Tell him you're sure it's going to be a boy!"
CHAPTER II.

THE SEED IS SOWN.
SITUATED in a distant quarter of the vast westernsuburb of

London, the house called The Retreat stood in the midst of a
well-kept garden, protected on all sides by a high brick wall.

Excepting the grand gilt cross on the roof of the chapel, nothing
revealed externally the devotional purpose to which the Roman

Catholic priesthood (assisted by the liberality of "the
Faithful") had dedicated the building.

But the convertprivileged to pass the gates left Protestant
England outside, and found himself, as it were, in a new country.

Inside The Retreat, the paternal care of the Church took
possession of him; surrounded him with monastic simplicity in his

neat little bedroom; and dazzled him with devotional splendor
when his religious duties called him into the chapel. The perfect