"I have thought it possible. Your journey may be long, or it may
be short--you shall not go away alone."

"I can think of nothing yet; my mind is a blank," Romayne
confessed sadly. "I don't know where I shall go."

"I know where you ought to go--and where you _will_ go," said
Father Benwell, emphatically.

"Where?"
"To Rome."

Romayne understood the true meaning of that brief reply. A vague
sense of dismay began to rise in his mind. While he was still

tortured by doubt, it seemed as if Father Benwell had, by some
inscrutable process of prevision, planned out his future

beforehand. Had the priestforeseen events?
No--he had only foreseen possibilities, on the day when it first

occurred to him that Romayne's marriage was assailable, before
the court of Romayne's conscience, from the Roman Catholic point

of view. By this means, the misfortune of Romayne's marriage
having preceded his conversion might be averted; and the one

certain obstacle in the way of any change of purpose on his
part--the obstacle of the priesthood--might still be set up, by

the voluntaryseparation of the husband from the wife. Thus far
the Jesuit had modestly described himself to his reverend

colleagues, as regarding his position toward Romayne in a new
light. His next letter might boldly explain to them what he had

really meant. The triumph was won. Not a word more passed between
his guest and himself that morning.

Before post-time, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his last
report to the Secretary of the Society of Jesus, in these lines:

"Romayne is free from the domestic ties that bound him. He leaves
it to me to restore Vange Abbey to the Church; and he

acknowledges a vocation for the priesthood. Expect us at Rome in
a fortnight's time."

AFTER THE STORY.
EXTRACTS FROM BERNARD WINTERFIELD'S DIARY.

I.
WINTERFIELD DEFENDS HIMSELF.

Beaupark House, June 17th, 18--.
You and I, Cousin Beeminster, seldom meet. But I occasionally

hear of you, from friends acquainted with both of us.
I have heard of you last at Sir Philip's rent-day dinner a week

since. My name happened to be mentioned by one of the gentlemen
present, a guest like yourself. You took up the subject of your

own free will, and spoke of me in these terms:
"I am sorry to say it of the existing head of the family--but

Bernard is really unfit for the position which he holds. He has,
to say the least of it, compromised himself and his relatives on

more than one occasion. He began as a young man by marrying a
circus-rider. He got into some other scrape, after that, which he

has contrived to keep a secret from us. We only know how
disgraceful it must have been by the results--he was a voluntary

exile from England for more than a year. And now, to complete the
list, he has mixed himself up in that miserable and revolting

business of Lewis Romayne and his wife."
If any other person had spoken of me in this manner, I should

have set him down as a mischievous idiot--to be kicked perhaps,
but not to be noticed in any other way.

With you, the case is different. If I die without male offspring,
the Beaupark estate goes to you, as next heir.

I don't choose to let a man in this position slander me, and
those dear to me, without promptly contradicting him. The name I

bear is precious to me, in memory of my father. Your unanswered
allusion to my relations with "Lewis Romayne and his wife,"

coming from a member of the family, will be received as truth.
Rather than let this be, I reveal to you, without reserve, some

of the saddest passages of my life. I have nothing to be ashamed
of--and, if I have hitherto kept certain events in the dark, it

has been for the sake of others, not for my own sake. I know
better now. A woman's reputation--if she is a good woman--is not

easily compromised by telling the truth. The person of whom I am
thinking, when I write this, knows what I am going to do--and

approves of it.
You will receive, with these lines, the most perfectly candid

statement that I can furnish, being extracts cut out of my own
private Diary. They are accompanied (where plain necessity seems

to call for it) by the written evidence of other persons.
There has never been much sympathy between us. But you have been

brought up like a gentleman--and, when you have read my
narrative, I expect that you will do justice to me, and to

others--even though you think we acted indiscreetly under trying
and critical circumstances.

B. W.
II.

WINTERFIELD MAKES EXTRACTS.
First Extract.

April 11th, 1869.--Mrs. Eyrecourt and her daughter have left
Beaupark to-day for London. Have I really made any impression on

the heart of the beautiful Stella? In my miserable
position--ignorant whether I am free or not--I have shrunk from

formally acknowledging that I love her.
12th.--I am becoming superstitious! In the Obituary of to-day's

_Times_ the death is recorded of that unhappy woman whom I was
mad enough to marry. After hearing nothing of her for seven

years--I am free! Surely this is a good omen? Shall I follow the
Eyrecourts to London, and declare myself? I have not confidence

enough in my own power of attraction to run the risk. Better to
write first, in strictest confidence, to Mrs. Eyrecourt.

14th.--An enchanting answer from my angel's mother, written in
great haste. They are on the point of leaving for Paris. Stella

is restless and dissatisfied; she wants change of scene; and Mrs.
Eyrecourt adds, in so many words--"It is you who have upset her;

why did you not speak while we were at Beaupark?" I am to hear
again from Paris. Good old Father Newbliss said all along that

she was fond of me, and wondered, like Mrs. Eyrecourt, why I
failed to declare myself. How could I tell them of the hideous

fetters which bound me in tho se days?
18th, Paris.--She has accepted me! Words are useless to express

my happiness.
19th.--A letter from my lawyer, full of professional subtleties

and delays. I have no patience to enumerate them. We move to
Belgium to-morrow. Not on our way back to England--Stella is so

little desirous of leaving the Continent that we are likely to be
married abroad. But she is weary of the perpetual gayety and

glitter of Paris, and wants to see the old Belgian cities. Her
mother leaves Paris with regret. The liveliest woman of her age

that I ever met with.
Brussels, May 7.--My blessing on the old Belgian cities. Mrs.

Eyrecourt is so eager to get away from them that she backs me in
hurrying the marriage, and even consents, sorely against the

grain, to let the wedding be celebrated at Brussels in a private
and unpretending way. She has only stipulated that Lord and Lady

Loring (old friends) shall be present. They are to arrive
tomorrow, and two days afterward we are to be married.

. . . . . . .
.

(An inclosure is inserted in this place. It consists of the
death-bed confession of Mr. Winterfield's wife, and of the

explanatory letter written by the rector of Belhaven. The
circumstances related in these documents, already known to the

reader, are left to speak for themselves, and the Extracts from
the Diary are then continued.)