  That the Marquis of Twickenham lives a religious life is a matter of public notoriety. His benefactions to the Church whose faith he had adopted are in the mouths of every one. By far the larger portion of his income must, in some form or other, go into priestly hands. His family seat at Cressland is ordered almost as if it were a house of the religious. Priests are everywhere. Both a convent and a monastery have been established in the grounds. His days are ordered as if he himself were one of the brotherhood. Prayer and fasting are his rules of life. Strange stories are told of self-inflicted penances. Thus he seeks, it would seem, to atone for the sins of his early life. In the opinion of certain persons the penitential spirit came on him with altogether unexpected suddenness. Mr. Stephen Foster, who had charge of the family finances till they were transferred to the custody of Roman Catholic administrators, to this day cannot understand how the alteration came about. He declares that when the truant peer first returned from his prolonged absence, his lordship struck him as being very much more of a scoffer than a bigot. Yet all at once he was in sackcloth and ashes. Mr. Foster cannot make it out at all. He is persuaded that there is something curious somewhere. Lord Reginald Sherrington keeps a keen eye upon his brother's proceedings. His lordship's generosity has enabled him to marry Lady Violet Howarth, and it is understood that the match is, on the whole, a happy one; but he cannot rid himself of a feeling that the priestly element which rules at Cressland requires attention and constant observation. In which respect he is not impossibly correct. Miss Desmond is still unmarried. Douglas Howarth is dead. The Marquis seemed by his return to have signed his death warrant. He was never again the man he used to be. Mr. Merrett flourishes exceedingly. His wife is happy as the day is long. She declares that since her James came home 'for good' she has never known a shadowed hour. May the sunset for her be indefinitely postponed! Mr. Augustus FitzHoward, whose name is familiar to many of us as the manager of one of our most popular London theatres, when speaking of his friend James Merrett, still proudly proclaims him to be 'the marvel of the age.' Mr. Merrett sometimes assures Mr. FitzHoward, with a dry little smile, that he has no notion how exact his definition is.
THE END
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