tume might be forced on the
English clergy by Protestant intolerance. She smothered her uncertainty,
and took him at his word. They went together into the garden. Mr. Austin
took off his hat before the tarnished Madonna, and crossed himself
again. The nun's doubts vanished.

'I think,' he said, 'that I should like to buy some of this tweed. Is it
for sale?'

'Oh, certainly. Sister Aloysia will sell it to you. We are so glad, so
very glad, when anyone will buy what our poor workers make. It is all a
help to the good cause.'

'Now this,' said Mr. Austin, fingering a bright-green cloth, 'would make
a nice lady's dress. Don't you think so?'

The nun cast down her eyes.

'I do not know, Father, about dresses. Sister Aloysia, the Reverend
Father wants to buy tweed to make a dress for '--she hesitated; perhaps
it was his niece, but he looked young to have a full-grown niece--'for
his sister.'

Sister Aloysia looked round her, puzzled. She saw no Reverend Father.

'This,' said the other, 'is Father--Father----'

'Austin,' he helped her out.

'Father Austin,' added the nun.

'And you wish,' said Sister Aloysia, 'to buy a dress for your sister?'

'Not for my sister,' said Mr. Austin--'for my wife.'

Both nuns started back as if he had tried to strike them.

'Your wife! Your wife! Then you are a Protestant.'

'Certainly not,' he said. 'I detest all Protestants. I am a Catholic--an
Anglo-Catholic.'

Neither of the nuns had ever heard of an Anglo-Catholic before.
What manner of religion such people might profess was doubtful and
unimportant. One thing was clear--this was not a priest in any sense of
the word which they could recognise. They distrusted him, as a wolf,
not certainly in the clothing, but using the language, of a sheep. The
situation became embarrassing. Mr. Austin prepared to bow himself away.

'I think,' he said, 'I shall ask Lady Geoghegan'--he rolled the title
out emphatically; it formed a salve to his wounded dignity--'I shall ask
Lady Geoghegan to purchase the tweed for me. I must be on the look-out
for a friend who promised to meet me here this afternoon--a young man
whom I contemplate engaging as my curate. I am most particular in the
choice of a curate, and should, of course, prefer a public school
and 'Varsity man. I need scarcely say that I refer only to Oxford and
Cambridge as the Universities. As a rule, I do not care for Irishmen,
but on the recommendation of my friend Dr. Henry, I am w