ilent and solitary--heedless
of the throng of pleasure-seekers all around him. The sorrow with
which such recollections filled his heart was caused by the contrast
which after years presented. He could recall his first falling-away
from grace, when the successful attainment of a coveted appointment had
brought with it the necessity of concealing his Catholic upbringing and
convictions. How rapidly had he descended after that turning point had
been passed! Conscience had been stifled until its voice no longer
troubled him. Ambition became his goal, worldly success his God. Far
away in Ireland his mother had died blessing him for his generous
provision for her, ignorant of her darling's downfall. None were now
left for whose opinion he had cared one straw, even should they learn
of his apostasy.

Shrouded as they were in the gloom of the auditorium, his face, kept
resolutely toward the stage, could not be seen by his companion, much
less his eyes, which were wells of misery. In his overwhelming grief
he almost forgot the girl beside him until a whispered remark upon some
beautiful passage in the music recalled her presence. It did but add
fresh stings to his remorse. Could it be possible that he--a son of a
sainted mother, child of a faithful Catholic race--could have
contemplated marriage with a professed atheist? Had he indeed been
planning to take to wife, to make the mother of his possible children,
one who openly flouted the idea of a personal God--he, who had drunk in
at his mother's breast the burning love of the Faith which is the
birthright of every true son of Ireland?

The pain and the shame which filled his heart were well-nigh
unendurable! Oh, if he could but manage to keep his self-control for
an hour or two! If he could but hold out until he was alone; for at
times it seemed as though he must betray himself--there, in that public
assembly--by crying aloud in his anguish, or even by breaking out into
unmanly weeping.

How he got through that miserable evening he never could recall. He
realized by her coldness on the return journey, and by the
demonstrative encouragement shown to Aston, that he had woefully
offended Violet.

Bernard never played his allotted part in the opera; for to every one's
astonishment he threw up his appointment and left the town, bound no
one knew whither. So the course was clear for Cuthbert Aston, and he
lost no time in making good his opportunity. His engagemen