be found worthy. He appeared to be deeply affected. I ventured to

ask if he too had the same prospect before him. He grieved me
indescribably. He sighed and said, 'I have no such hope; I am

married.' Tell me Father, I entreat you, have I done wrong?"
Father Benwell considered for a moment. "Did Mr. Romayne say

anything more?" he asked.
"No, Father."

"Did you attempt to return to the subject?"
"I thought it best to be silent."

Father Benwell held out his hand. "My young friend, you have not
only done no wrong--you have shown the most commendable

discretion. I will detain you no longer from your duties. Go to
Mr. Romayne, and say that I wish to speak with him."

Mr. Mortleman dropped on one knee, and begged for a blessing.
Father Benwell lifted the traditional two fingers, and gave the

blessing. The conditions of human happiness are easily fulfilled
if we rightly understand them. Mr. Mortleman retired perfectly

happy.
Left by himself again, Father Benwell paced the room rapidly from

end to end. The disturbing influence visible in his face had now
changed from anxiety to excitement. "I'll try it to-day!" he said

to himself--and stopped, and looked round him doubtfully. "No,
not here," he decided; "it may get talked about too soon. It will

be safer in every way at my lodgings." He recovered his
composure, and returned to his chair.

Romayne opened the door.
The double influence of the conversion, and of the life in The

Retreat, had already changed him. His customary keenness and
excitability of look had subsided, and had left nothing in their

place but an expression of suave and meditative repose. All his
troubles were now in the hands of his priest. There was a passive

regularity in his bodily movements and a beatific serenity in his
smile.

"My dear friend," said Father Benwell, cordially shaking hands,
"you were good enough to be guided by my advice in entering this

house. Be guided by me again, when I say that you have been here
long enough. You can return, after an interval, if you wish it.

But I have something to say to you first--and I beg to offer the
hospitality of my lodgings."

The time had been when Romayne would have asked for some
explanation of this abrupt notice of removal. Now, he passively

accepted the advice of his spiritualdirector. Father Benwell
made the necessary communication to the authorities, and Romayne

took leave of his friends in The Retreat. The great Jesuit and
the great landowner left the place, with becoming humility, in a

cab.
"I hope I have not disappointed you?" said Father Benwell.

"I am only anxious," Romayne answered, "to hear what you have to
say."

CHAPTER III.
THE HARVEST IS REAPED.

ON their way through the streets, Father Benwell talked as
persistently of the news of the day as if he had nothing else in

his thoughts. To keep his companion's mind in a state of suspense
was, in certain emergencies, to exert a useful preparatory

influence over a man of Romayne's character. Even when they
reached his lodgings, the priest still hesitated to approach the

object that he had in view. He made considerate inquiries, in the
character of a hospitable man.

"They breakfast early at The Retreat," he said. "What may I offer
you?"

"I want nothing, thank you," Romayne answered, with an effort to
control his habitualimpatience of needless delay.

"Pardon me--we have a long interview before us, I fear. Our
bodily necessities, Romayne (excuse me if I take the friendly

liberty of suppressing the formal 'Mr.')--our bodily necessities
are not to be trifled with. A bottle of my famous claret, and a

few biscuits, will not hurt either of us." He rang the bell, and
gave the necessary directions "Another damp day!" he went on

cheerfully. "I hope you don't pay the rheumatic penalties of a
winter residence in England? Ah, this glorious country would be

too perfect if it possessed the deliciousclimate of Rome!"
The wine and biscuits were brought in. Father Benwell filled the

glasses and bowed cordially to his guest.
"Nothing of this sort at The Retreat!" he said gayly. "Excellent

water, I am told--which is a luxury in its way, especially in
London. Well, my dear Romayne, I must begin by making my

apologies. You no doubt thought me a little abrupt in running
away with you from your retirement at a moment's notice?"

"I believed that you had good reasons, Father--and that was
enough for me."

"Thank you--you do me justice--it was in your best interests that
I acted. There are men of phlegmatic temperament, over whom the

wise monotony of discipline at The Retreat exercises a wholesome
influence--I mean an influence which may be prolonged with

advantage. You are not one of those persons. Protracted seclusion
and monotony of life are morally and mentally unprofitable to a

man of your ardentdisposition. I abstained from mentioning these
reasons, at the time, out of a feeling of regard for our

excellent residentdirector, who believes unreservedly in the
institution over which he presides. Very good! The Retreat has

done all that it could usefully do in your case. We must think
next of how to employ that mental activity which, rightly

developed, is one of the most valuable qualities that you
possess. Let me ask, first, if you have in some degree recovered

your tranquillity?"
"I feel like a different man, Father Benwell."

"That's right! And your nervous sufferings--I don't ask what they
are; I only want to know if you experience a sense of relief?"

"A most welcome sense of relief," Romayne answered, with a
revival of the enthusiasm of other days. "The complete change in

all my thoughts and convictions which I owe to you--"
"And to dear Penrose," Father Benwell interposed, with the prompt

sense of justice which no man could more becomingly assume. "We
must not forget Arthur."

"Forget him?" Romayne repeated. "Not a day passes without my
thinking of him. It is one of the happy results of the change in

me that my mind does not dwell bitterly on the loss of him now. I
think of Penrose with admiration, as of one whose glorious life,

with all its dangers, I should like to share!"
He spoke with a rising color and brightening eyes. Already, the

absorbent capacity of the Roman Church had drawn to itself that
sympathetic side of his character which was also one of its

strongest sides. Already, his love for Penrose--hitherto inspired
by the virtues of the man--had narrowed its range to sympathy

with the trials and privileges of the priest. Truly and deeply,
indeed, had the physician consulted, in bygone days, reasoned on

Romayne's case! That "occurrence of some new and absorbing
influence in his life," of which the doctor had spoken--that

"working of some complete change in his habits of thought"--had
found its way to him at last, after the wife's simple devotion

had failed, through the subtler ministrations of the priest.
Some men, having Father Benwell's object in view, would have

taken instantadvantage of the opening offered to them by
Romayne's unguardedenthusiasm. The illustrious Jesuit held fast

by the wise maxim which forbade him to do anything in a hurry.
"No," he said, "your life must not be the life of our dear

friend. The service on which the Church employs Penrose is not
the fit service for you. You have other claims on us."

Romayne looked at his spiritualadviser with a momentary change
of expression--a relapse into the ironical bitterness of the past

time.
"Have you forgotten that I am, and can be, only a layman?" he

asked. "What claims can I have, except the common claim of all
faithful members of the Church on the good offices of the

priesthood?" He paused for a moment, and continued with the
abruptness of a man struck by a new idea. "Yes! I have perhaps