heir troubles at home, they appeal to the Editor. In
their travels abroad, over civilized and savage regions alike, if they
meet with an adventure worth mentioning they tell it to the Editor. If
any one of our countrymen knows anything of this dreadful massacre, I
foresee with certainty where we shall find the information in print.

Soon after my arrival here, Stella had told me of her memorable
conversation with Penrose in the garden at Ten Acres Lodge. I was well
acquainted with the nature of her obligation to the young priest, but
I was not prepared for the outbreak of grief which escaped her when she
had read the telegram from Rome. She actually went the length of saying,
"I shall never enjoy another happy moment till I know whether Penrose is
one of the two living priests!"

The inevitable third person with us, this morning, was Monsieur
Villeray. Sitting at the window with a book in his hand--sometimes
reading, sometimes looking at the garden with the eye of a fond
horticulturist--he discovered a strange cat among his flower beds.
Forgetful of every other consideration, the old gentleman hobbled out to
drive away the intruder, and left us together.

I spoke to Stella, in words which I would now give everything I possess
to recall. A detestable jealousy took possession of me. I meanly hinted
that Penrose could claim no great merit (in the matter of Romayne's
conversion) for yielding to the entreaties of a beautiful woman who
had fascinated him, though he might be afraid to own it. She protested
against my unworthy insinuation--but she failed to make me ashamed
of myself. Is a woman ever ignorant of the influence which her beauty
exercises over a man? I went on, like the miserable creature that I was,
from bad to worse.

"Excuse me," I said, "if I have unintentionally made you angry. I ought
to have known that I was treading on delicate ground. Your interest in
Penrose may be due to a warmer motive than a sense of obligation."

She turned away from me--sadly, not angrily--intending, as it appeared,
to leave the room in silence. Arrived at the door, she altered her mind,
and came back.

"Even if you insult me, Bernard, I am not able to resent it," she said,
very gently. "_I_ once wronged _you_--I have no right to complain of your
now wronging me. I will try to forget it."

She held out her hand. She raised her eyes--and looked at me.

It was not her fault; I alone am to blame. In another moment she was in
my