ankly owned to me that he was a priest. If you blame anybody, you had
better blame me for respecting his confidence."

She drew back from him, hurt by the tone in which he spoke to her. "I
remember the time, Lewis," she said, "when you would have been more
indulgent toward my errors--even if I am wrong."

That simple appeal touched his better nature. "I don't mean to be hard
on you, Stella," he answered. "It is a little irritating to hear you say
that you distrust the most devoted and most affectionate friend that man
ever had. Why can't I love my wife, and love my friend, too? You don't
know, when I am trying to get on with my book, how I miss the help and
sympathy of Penrose. The very sound of his voice used to encourage me.
Come, Stella, give me a kiss--and let us, as the children say, make it
up!"

He rose from his writing-table. She met him more than half way, and
pressed all her love--and perhaps a little of her fear--on his lips.
He returned the kiss as warmly as it was given; and then, unhappily for
both of them, he went back to the subject.

"My own love," he said, "try to like my friend for my sake; and be
tolerant of other forms of Christianity besides the form which happens
to be yours."

Her smiling lips closed; she turned from him. With the sensitive
selfishness of a woman's love, she looked on Penrose as a robber who had
stolen the sympathies which should have been wholly hers. As she moved
away, her quick observation noticed the open book on the desk, with
notes and lines in pencil on the margin of the page. What had Romayne
been reading which interested him in _that_ way? If he had remained
silent, she would have addressed the inquiry to him openly. But he was
hurt on his side by the sudden manner of her withdrawal from him. He
spoke--and his tone was colder than ever.

"I won't attempt to combat your prejudices," he said. "But one thing I
must seriously ask of you. When my friend Penrose comes here to-morrow,
don't treat him as you treated Mr. Winterfield."

There was a momentary paleness in her face which looked like fear, but
it passed away again. She confronted him firmly with steady eyes.

"Why do you refer again to that?" she asked. "Is--" (she hesitated
and recovered herself)--"Is Mr. Winterfield another devoted friend of
yours?"

He walked to the door, as if he could hardly trust his temper if he
answered her--stopped--and, thinking better of it, turned toward her
again.

"We won't