or two have gone from curiosity; there is no
practice of going, at least this is what I am told."

"Well," said Charles, "you must promise me you will not go again. Come,
we won't part till you do."

"That is too much," said Willis, gently; then, disengaging his arm from
Reding's, he suddenly darted away from him, saying, "Good-bye, good-bye;
to our next merry meeting--_au revoir_."

There was no help for it. Charles walked slowly home, saying to himself:
"What if, after all, the Roman Catholic Church is the true Church? I
wish I knew what to believe; no one will tell me what to believe; I am
so left to myself." Then he thought: "I suppose I know quite enough for
practice--more than I _do_ practise; and I ought surely to be contented
and thankful."

CHAPTER XII.

Charles was an affectionate son, and the Long Vacation passed very
happily at home. He was up early, and read steadily till luncheon, and
then he was at the service of his father, mother, and sisters for the
rest of the day. He loved the calm, quiet country; he loved the
monotonous flow of time, when each day is like the other; and, after the
excitement of Oxford, the secluded parsonage was like a haven beyond the
tossing of the waves. The whirl of opinions and perplexities which had
encircled him at Oxford now were like the distant sound of the
ocean--they reminded him of his present security. The undulating
meadows, the green lanes, the open heath, the common with its
wide-spreading dusky elms, the high timber which fringed the level path
from village to village, ever and anon broken and thrown into groups, or
losing itself in copses--even the gate, and the stile, and the
turnpike-road had the charm, not of novelty, but of long familiar use;
they had the poetry of many recollections. Nor was the dilapidated,
deformed church, with its outside staircases, its unsightly galleries,
its wide intruded windows, its uncouth pews, its low nunting table, its
forlorn vestry, and its damp earthy smell, without its pleasant
associations to the inner man; for there it was that for many a year,
Sunday after Sunday, he had heard his dear father read and preach; there
were the old monuments, with Latin inscriptions and strange devices, the
black boards with white letters, the Resurgams and grinning skulls, the
fire-buckets, the faded militia-colours, and, almost as much a fixture,
the old clerk, with a Welsh wig over his ears, shouting the responses
out of place