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 lively imagination 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 unhappy temper, 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 chin. 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 Catholic —”

Romayne’s temper gave way once more.

“If anything can make me a Catholic,” he said, “y............