The chill blasts had begun to swoop down from the frozen North, and summer had gathered her dainty robes about her and fled shivering before them. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles stood at a window and gazed with unseeing eyes at the withered leaves tossing in the wind.

Carmen’s sixteenth birthday was past by some months; the gay season was at hand; and the day was speeding toward her which she had set for the girl’s formal dÉbut. Already, through informal calls and gatherings, she had made her charming and submissive ward known to most of her own city acquaintances and the members of her particular set. The fresh, beautiful girl’s winning personality; her frank, ingenuous manner; her evident sincerity and her naÏve remarks, which now only gave hints of her radical views, had opened every heart wide to her, and before the advent of the social season her wonderful story was on everybody’s tongue. There remained now only the part which the woman had planned for the Beaubien, but which, thus far, she had found neither the courage nor the opportunity to suggest to that influential woman. Gazing out into the deserted street, she stamped her ample foot in sheer vexation. The Beaubien had absorbed Carmen; had been politely 81 affable to her and her sister; had called twice during the summer; and had said nothing. But what was there for her to say? The hint must come from the other side; and Mrs. Hawley-Crowles could have wept with chagrin as she reflected gloomily on her own timorous spirit.

But as she stood in dejection before the window a vague idea flitted into her brain, and she clutched at it desperately. Carmen had spoken of the frequent calls of a certain Monsignor Lafelle at the Beaubien mansion, although the girl had never met him. Now why did he go there? “Humph!” muttered Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. “Old Gaspard de Beaubien was a French Catholic.”

But what had that to do with Carmen? Nothing––except––why, to be sure, the girl came from a Catholic country, and therefore was a Catholic! Mrs. Hawley-Crowles chuckled. That was worth developing a little further. “Let us see,” she reflected, “Kathleen Ames is coming out this winter, too. Just about Carmen’s age. Candidate for her mother’s social position, of course. Now the Ames family are all Presbyterians. The Reverend Darius Borwell, D.D., L.L.D., and any other D. that will keep him glued to his ten-thousand-dollar salary, hooked them early in the game. Now suppose––suppose Lafelle should tell the Beaubien that––that there’s––no, that won’t do! But suppose I tell him that here’s a chance for him to back a Catholic against a Protestant for the highest social honors in New York––Carmen versus Kathleen––what would he say? Humph! I’m just as good a Catholic as Protestant. Jim was Irish––clear through. And Catholic, Methodist, or Hard-shell Baptist, as suited his needs. He played ’em all. Suppose I should tip it off to Lafelle that I’m smitten with the pious intention of donating an altar to Holy Saints Cathedral in memory of my late, unlamented consort––what then? It’s worth considering, anyway. Yes, it’s not a bad idea at all.”

And thus it was that a few days later Mrs. Hawley-Crowles timed it so carefully that she chanced to call on the Beaubien with Carmen shortly after Monsignor Lafelle’s car had pulled up at the same door. It was the merest accident, too, that Carmen led her puffing guardian directly into the morning room, where sat the Beaubien and Monsignor in earnest conversation. Mrs. Hawley-Crowles would have retired at once, stammering apologies, and reprimanding Carmen for her assumption of liberties in another’s house; but the Beaubien was grace and cordiality itself, and she insisted on retaining her three callers and making them mutually acquainted.

With the ice thus broken, Mrs. Hawley-Crowles found it easy to take the contemplated plunge. Therefore she smiled 82 triumphantly when, a week later, Monsignor Lafelle alighted at her own door, in response to a summons on matters pertaining to the Church.

“But, Madam,” replied the holy man, after carefully listening to her announcement, “I can only refer the matter to the Bishop. I am not connected with this diocese. I am traveling almost constantly. But I shall be most pleased to lay it before him, with my endorsement.”

“As you say, Monsignor,” sweetly responded the gracious Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. “I sought your advice because I had met you through my dear friend, Madam Beaubien.”

“It has been a great pleasure to know you and to be of service to you, Madam,” said Monsignor, rising to depart. “But,” he added with a tender smile, “a pleasure that would be enhanced were you to become one of us.”

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles knew that at last the time had come. “A moment, please, Monsignor,” she said, her heart beating quickly. “There is another matter. Please be seated. It concerns my ward, the young girl whom you met at Madam Beaubien’s.”

“Ah, indeed!” said the man, resuming his seat. “A beautiful girl.”

“Yes!” returned Mrs. Hawley-Crowles enthusiastically. “And just budding into still more beautiful womanhood.” She stopped and reflected a moment. Then she threw herself precipitately into her topic, as if she feared further delay would result in the evaporation of her boldness. “Monsignor, it is, as you say, unfortunate that I profess no religious convictions; and yet, as I have told you, I find that as the years pass I lean ever more strongly toward your Church. Now you will pardon me when I say that I am sure it is the avowed intention to make America dominantly Catholic that brings you to this country to work toward that end––is it not so?”

The man’s handsome face lighted up pleasantly, but he did not reply. The woman went on without waiting.

“Now, Monsignor, I am going to be terribly frank; and if you disapprove of what I suggest, we will both forget that the matter was ever under discussion. To begin with, I heartily endorse your missionary efforts in this godless country of ours. Nothing but the strong arm of the Catholic Church, it seems to me, can check our headlong plunge into ruin. But, Monsignor, you do not always work where your labors are most needed. You may control political––”

“My dear lady,” interrupted the man, holding up a hand and shaking his head in gentle demurral, “the Catholic Church is not in politics.”

“But it is in society––or should be!” said the woman earnestly. “And if the Catholic Church is to be supreme in America it must work from the top down, as well as from the lower levels upward. At present our wealthiest, most influential social set is absolutely domineered by a Protestant––and under the influence of a Presbyterian minister at that! Why do you permit it?”

Monsignor Lafelle’s eyes twinkled, as he listened politely. But he only stroked the white hair that crowned his shapely head, and waited.

“Monsignor,” continued the now thoroughly heated Mrs. Hawley-Crowles, “why do not the women of your Church constitute our society leaders? Why do you not recognize the desirability of forcing your people into every avenue of human activity? And would you resent a suggestion from me as to how in one instance this might be accomplished?”

“Certainly not, Madam,” replied Monsignor, with an expression of wonder on his face. “Pray proceed.”

“You are laughing at me, I do believe!” she exclaimed, catching the glint in his gray eyes.

“Pardon me, dear lady, I really am deeply interested. Please go on.”

“Well, at any rate I have your promise to forget this conversation if you do not approve of it,” she said quizzically.

He nodded his head to inspire her confidence; and she continued:

“Very well, now to the point. My ward, the little Inca princess, is coming out shortly. I want her to have the entrÉe into the very best society, into the most fashionable and exclusive set, as befitting her rank.” She stopped and awaited the effect of her words.

Monsignor studied her for a moment, and then broke into a genial laugh. “There is nothing reprehensible in your wish, Madam,” he said. “Our social system, however imperfect, nevertheless exists, and––dominant Catholic influence might improve it. I am quite sure it would.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mrs. Hawley-Crowles. “Then will you help me?”

“Why, I really see nothing that I can do,” he replied slowly.

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles was becoming exasperated with his apparent dullness. “You can do much,” she retorted in a tone tinctured with impatience. “Since I have made you my Father Confessor to-day, I am going to tell you that I intend to start a social war that will rip this city wide open. It is going to be war in which Catholic is pitted against Protestant. Now, which side is your Church on?”

For a moment her blunt question startled him, and he stared at her uncomprehendingly; but he quickly recovered his poise and replied calmly, “Neither, Madam; it remains quite neutral.”

“What!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you interested?”

“Pardon me if I say it; not at all.”

“Oh!” she murmured, her eagerness subsiding. “Then I’ve made an awful mistake!”

“No,” he amended gently, “you have made a good friend. And, as such, I again urge you first to respect the leaning which you mentioned a moment ago and become actively affiliated with our Church here in New York. Both you and the young lady. Will you not consider it?”

“Certainly I will consider it,” she responded, brightening with hope. “And I will go so far as to say that I have long had it in mind.”

“Then, Madam, when that is accomplished, we may discuss the less important matter of your ward’s entrance into society––is it not so?”

Mrs. Hawley-Crowles rose, completely discomfited. “But the girl, Monsignor, is already a Catholic––comes from a Catholic country. It is she whom I am pitting against the Protestant.”

“And you will efface yourself?” he queried with a peculiar smile.

“You are cruel,” she retorted, affecting an air of injured innocence as she stood before him with downcast eyes. “But––if you––”

“Madam,” said Monsignor, “plainly, what is it that you wish me to do?”

The sudden propounding of the question drew an equally sudden but less thoughtful response.

“Tell the Beau––Madam Beaubien that you wish my ward to be received into the best society, and for the reasons I have given you. That’s all.”

“And is my influence with Madam Beaubien, and hers with the members of fashionable society, sufficient to effect that?” he asked, an odd look coming into his eyes.

“She has but to say the word to J. Wilton Ames, and his wife will receive us both,” said the woman, carried away by her eagerness. “And that means strong Catholic influence in New York’s most aristocratic set!”

“Ah!”

“Monsignor,” continued the woman eagerly, “will your Church receive an altar from me in memory of my late husband?”

He reflected a moment. Then, slowly, and in a low, earnest tone, “It would receive such a gift from one of the faith. When may we expect you to become a communicant?”

The woman paled, and her heart suddenly chilled. She had wondered how far she might go with this clever churchman, and now she knew that she had gone too far. But to retract––to have him relate this conversation and her retraction to the Beaubien––were fatal! She had set her trap––and walked into it. She groped blindly for an answer. Then, raising her eyes and meeting his searching glance, she murmured feebly, “Whenever you say, Monsignor.”

When the man had departed, which he did immediately, the plotting woman threw herself upon the davenport and wept with rage. “Belle,” she wailed, as her wondering sister entered the room, “I’m going to join the Catholic Church! But I’d go through Sheol to beat that Ames outfit!”