and what makes
it so; but any child or foolish fellow can see that it is so."

"I do not understand," said Isabel, wrinkling her forehead.

"Why this--that you are as likely to know the Catholic Church when you
see it, as Dr. Grindal or Dr. Freake, or your dear father himself. Only a
divine can explain about it and understand it, but you and I are as fit
to see it and walk into it, as any of them."

"But then why are they not all Catholics?" asked Isabel, still
bewildered.

"Ah!" said the nun, softly, "God alone knows, who reads hearts and calls
whom He will. But learning, at least, has nought to do with it."

Conversations of this kind that took place now and then between the two
were sufficient to show Mistress Margaret, like tiny bubbles on the
surface of a clear stream, the swift movement of this limpid soul that
she loved so well. But on the other hand, all the girl's past life, and
most sacred and dear associations, were in conflict with this movement;
the memory of her quiet, wise father rose and reproached her sometimes;
Anthony's enthusiastic talk, when he came down from Lambeth, on the
glorious destinies of the Church of England, of her gallant protest
against the corruptions of the West, and of her future unique position in
Christendom as the National Church of the most progressive country--all
this caused her to shrink back terrified from the bourne to which she was
drifting, and from the breach that must follow with her brother. But
above all else that caused her pain was the shocking suspicion that her
love for Hubert perhaps was influencing her, and that she was living in
gross self-deception as to the sincerity of her motives.

This culminated at last in a scene that seriously startled the old nun;
it took place one summer night after Hubert's departure in Mr. Drake's
expedition. Mistress Margaret had seen Isabel to her room, and an hour
later had finished her night-office and was thinking of preparing herself
to bed, when there was a hurried tap at the door, and Isabel came quickly
in, her face pale and miserable, her great grey eyes full of trouble and
distraction, and her hair on her shoulders.

"My dear child," said the nun, "what is it?"

Isabel closed the door and stood looking at her, with her lips parted.

"How can I know, Mistress Margaret," she said, in the voice of a
sleep-walker, "whether this is the voice of God or of my own wicked self?
No, no," she went on, as the other came towa