The sun was shining into Laura's room when she awoke. She lay still for a little while, looking about her.

Her room—which formed part of an eighteenth-century addition to the Tudor house—was rudely panelled with stained deal, save on the fireplace wall, where, on either side of the hearth, the plaster had been covered with tapestry. The subject of the tapestry was Diana hunting. Diana, white and tall, with her bow and quiver, came, queenly, through a green forest. Two greyhounds ranged beside her, and in the dim distance of the wood her maidens followed. On the right an old castle, with pillars like a Greek temple, rose stately but a little crooked on the edge of a blue sea; the sea much faded, with the wooden handle of a cupboard thrust rudely through it. Two long-limbed ladies, with pulled patched faces, stood on the castle steps. In front was a ship, with a waiting warrior and a swelling sail; and under him, a blue wave worn very threadbare, shamed indeed by that intruding handle, but still blue enough, still windy enough for thoughts of love and flight.

Laura, half asleep still, with her hands under her cheek, lay staring in a vague pleasure at the castle and the forest. "Enchanted casements"—"perilous seas"—"in fairy lands forlorn." The lines ran sleepily, a little jumbled, in her memory.

But gradually the morning and the freshness worked; and her spirits, emerging from their half-dream, began to dance within her. When she sprang up to throw the window wide, there below her was the sparkling river, the daffodils waving their pale heads in the delicate Westmoreland grass, the high white clouds still racing before the wind. How heavenly to find oneself in this wild clean country!—after all the ugly squalors of parade and lodging-house, after the dingy bow-windowed streets with the March dust whirling through them.

She leant across the broad window-sill, her chin on her hands, absorbed, drinking it in. The eastern sun, coming slanting-ways, bathed her tumbled masses of fair hair, her little white form, her bare feet raised tiptoe.

Suddenly she drew back. She had seen the figure of a man crossing the park on the further side of the river, and the maidenly instinct drove her from the window; though the man in question was perhaps a quarter of a mile away, and had he been looking for her, could not possibly have made out more than a pale speck on the old wall.

"Mr. Helbeck,"—she thought—"by the height of him. Where is he off to before seven o'clock in the morning? I hate a man that can't keep rational hours like other people! Fricka, come here!"

For her little dog, who had sprung from the bed after its mistress, was now stretching and blinking behind her. At Laura's voice it jumped up and tried to lick her face. Laura caught it in her arms and sat down on the bed, still hugging it.

"No, Fricka, I don't like him—I don't, I don't, I don't! But you and I have just got to behave. If you annoy that big dog downstairs, he'll break your neck,—he will, Fricka. As for me,"—she shrugged her small shoulders,—"well, Mr. Helbeck can't break my neck, so I'm dreadfully afraid I shall annoy him—dreadfully, dreadfully afraid! But I'll try not. You see, what we've got to do, is just to get Augustina well—stand over her with a broomstick and pour the tonics down her throat. Then, Fricka, we'll go our way and have some fun. Now look at us!——"

She moved a little, so that the cracked glass on the dressing-table reflected her head and shoulders, with the dog against her neck.

"You know we're not at all bad-looking, Fricka—neither of us. I've seen much worse. (Oh, Fricka! I've told you scores of times I can wash my face—without you—thank you!) There's all sorts of nice things that might happen if we just put ourselves in the way of them. Oh! I do want some fun—I do!—at least sometimes!"

But again the voice dropped suddenly; the big greenish eyes filled in a moment with inconsistent tears, and Laura sat staring at the sunshine, while the drops fell on her white nightgown.

Meanwhile Fricka, being half throttled, made a violent effort and escaped. Laura too sprang up, wiped away her tears as though she were furious with them, and began to look about her for the means of dressing. Everything in the room was of the poorest and scantiest—the cottage washstand with its crockery, the bare dressing-table and dilapidated glass.

"A bath!—my kingdom for a bath! I don't mind starving, but one must wash. Let's ring for that rough-haired girl, Fricka, and try and get round her. Goodness!—no bells?"

After long search, however, she discovered a tattered shred of tapestry hanging in a corner, and pulled it vigorously. Many efforts, however, were needed before there was a sound of feet in the passage outside. Laura hastily donned a blue dressing-gown, and stood expectant.

The door was opened unceremoniously and a girl thrust in her head. Laura had made acquaintance with her the night before. She was the housekeeper's underling and niece.

"Mrs. Denton says I'm not to stop. She's noa time for answerin bells. And you'll have some hot water when t' kettle boils."

The door was just shutting again when Laura sprang at the speaker and caught her by the arm.

"My dear," she said, dragging the girl in, "that won't do at all. Now look here"—she held up her little white hand, shaking the forefinger with energy—"I don't—want—to give—any trouble, and Mrs. Denton may keep her hot water. But I must have a bath—and a big can—and somebody must show me where to go for water—and then—then, my dear—if you make yourself agreeable, I'll—well, I'll teach you how to do your hair on Sundays—in a way that will surprise you!"

The girl stared at her in sudden astonishment, her dark stupid eyes wavering. She had a round, peasant face, not without comeliness, and a lustreless shock of black hair. Laura laughed.

"I will," she said, nodding; "you'll see. And I'll give you notions for your best frock. I'll be a regular elder sister to you—if you'll just do a few things for me—and Mrs. Fountain. What's your name—Ellen?—that's all right. Now, is there a bath in the house?"

The girl unwillingly replied that there was one in the big room at the end of the passage.

"Show it me," said Laura, and marched her off there. The rough-headed one led the way along the panelled passage and opened a door.

Then it was Laura's turn to stare.

Inside she saw a vast room with finely panelled walls and a decorated ceiling. The sunlight poured in through an uncurtained window upon the only two objects in the room,—a magnificent bed, carved and gilt, with hangings of tarnished brocade,—and a round tin bath of a common, old-fashioned make, propped up against the wall. The oak boards were absolutely bare. The bed and the bath looked at each other.

"What's become of all the furniture?" said Laura, gazing round her in astonishment.

"The gentleman from Edinburgh had it all, lasst month," said the girl, still sullenly. "He's affther the bed now."

"Oh!—Does he often come here?"

The girl hesitated.

"Well, he's had a lot o' things oot o' t' house, sen I came."

"Has he?" said Laura. "Now, then—lend a hand."

Between them they carried off the bath; and then Laura informed herself where water was to be had, and when breakfast would be ready.

"T' Squire's gone oot," said Ellen, still watching the newcomer from under a pair of very black and beetling brows; "and Mrs. Denton said she supposed yo'd be wantin a tray for Mrs. Fountain."

"Does the Squire take no breakfast?"

"Noa. He's away to Mass—ivery mornin, an' he gets his breakfast wi'
Father Bowles."

The girl's look grew more hostile.

"Oh, does he?" said Laura in a tone of meditation. "Well, then, look here. Put another cup and another plate on Mrs. Fountain's tray, and I'll have mine with her. Shall I come down to the kitchen for it?"

"Noa," said the girl hastily. "Mrs. Denton doan't like foak i' t' kitchen."

At that moment a call in Mrs. Denton's angriest tones came pealing along the passage outside. Laura laughed and pushed the girl out of the room.

* * * * *

An hour later Miss Fountain was ministering to her stepmother in the most comfortable bedroom that the house afforded. The furniture, indeed, was a medley. It seemed to have been gathered out of many other rooms. But at any rate there was abundance of it; a carpet much worn, but still useful, covered the floor; and Ellen had lit the fire without being summoned to do it. Laura recognised that Mr. Helbeck must have given a certain number of precise orders on the subject of his sister.

Poor Mrs. Fountain, however, was not happy. She was sitting up in bed, wrapped in an unbecoming flannel jacket—Augustina had no taste in clothes—and looking with an odd repugnance at the very passable breakfast that Laura placed before her. Laura did not quite know what to make of her. In old days she had always regarded her stepmother as an easy-going, rather self-indulgent creature, who liked pleasant food and stuffed chairs, and could be best managed or propitiated through some attention to her taste in sofa-cushions or in tea-cakes.

No doubt, since Mrs. Fountain's reconciliation with the Church of her fathers, she had shown sometimes an anxious disposition to practise the usual austerities of good Catholics. But neither doctor nor director had been able to indulge her in this respect, owing to the feebleness of her health. And on the whole she had acquiesced readily enough.

But Laura found her now changed and restless.

"Oh! Laura, I can't eat all that!"

"You must," said Laura firmly. "Really, Augustina, you must."

"Alan's gone out," said Augustina, with a wistful inconsequence, straining her eyes as though to look through the diamond panes of the window opposite, at the park and the persons walking in it.

"Yes. He seems to go to Whinthorpe every morning for Mass. Ellen says he breakfasts with the priest."

Augustina sighed and fidgeted. But when she was half-way through her meal, Laura standing over her, she suddenly laid a shaking hand on Laura's arm.

"Laura!—Alan's a saint!—he always was—long ago—when I was so blind and wicked. But now—oh! the things Mrs. Denton's been telling me!"

"Has she?" said Laura coolly. "Well, make up your mind, Augustina"—she shook her bright head—"that you can't be the same kind of saint that he is—anyway."

Mrs. Fountain withdrew her hand in quick offence.

"I should be glad if you could talk of these things without flippancy, Laura. When I think how incapable I have been all these years, of understanding my dear brother——"

"No—you see you were living with papa," said Laura slowly.

She had left her stepmother's side, and was standing with her back to an old cabinet, resting her elbows upon it. Her brows were drawn together, and poor Mrs. Fountain, after a glance at her, looked still more miserable.

"Your poor papa!" she murmured with a gulp, and then, as though to propitiate Laura, she drew her breakfast back to her, and again tried to eat it. Small and slight as they both were, there was a very sharp contrast between her and her stepdaughter. Laura's features were all delicately clear, and nothing could have been more definite, more brilliant than the colour of the eyes and hair, or the whiteness—which was a beautiful and healthy whiteness—of her skin. Whereas everything about Mrs. Fountain was indeterminate; the features with their slight twist to the left; the complexion, once fair, and now reddened by years and ill-health; the hair, of a yellowish grey; the head and shoulders with their nervous infirmity. Only the eyes still possessed some purity of colour. Through all their timidity or wavering, they were still blue and sweet; perhaps they alone explained why a good many persons—including her stepdaughter—were fond of Augustina.

"What has Mrs. Denton been telling you about Mr. Helbeck?" Laura inquired, speaking with some abruptness, after a pause.

"You wouldn't have any sympathy, Laura," said Mrs. Fountain, in some agitation. "You see, you don't understand our Catholic principles. I wish you did!—oh! I wish you did! But you don't. And so perhaps I'd better not talk about it."

"It might interest me to know the facts," said Laura, in a little hard voice. "It seems to me that I'm likely to be Mr. Helbeck's guest for a good while."

"But you won't like it, Laura!" cried Mrs. Fountain—"and you'll misunderstand Alan. Your poor dear father always misunderstood him." (Laura made a restless movement.) "It is not because we think we can save our souls by such things—of course not!—that's the way you Protestants put it——"

"I'm not a Protestant!" said Laura hotly. Mrs. Fountain took no notice.

"But it's what the Church calls 'mortification,'" she said, hurrying on. "It's keeping the body under—as St. Paul did. That's what makes saints—and it does make saints—whatever people say. Your poor father didn't agree, of course. But he didn't know!—oh! dear, dear Stephen!—he didn't know. And Alan isn't cross, and it doesn't spoil his health—it doesn't, really."

"What does he do?" asked Laura, trying for the point.

But poor Augustina, in her mixed flurry of feeling, could hardly explain.

"You see, Laura, there's a strict way of keeping Lent, and—well—just the common way—doing as little as you can. It used to be all much stricter, of course."

"In the Dark Ages?" suggested Laura. Augustina took no notice.

"And what the books tell you now, is much stricter than what anybody does.—I'm sure I don't know why. But Alan takes it strictly—he wants to go back to quite the old ways. Oh! I wish I could explain it——"

Mrs. Fountain stopped bewildered. She was sure she had heard once that in the early Church people took no food at all till the evening—not even a drink. But Alan was not going to do that?

Laura had taken Fricka on her knee, and was straightening the ribbon round the dog's neck.

"Does he eat anything?" she asked carelessly, looking up. "If it's nothing—that would be interesting."

"Laura! if you only would try and understand!—Of course Alan doesn't settle such a thing for himself—nobody does with us. That's only in the English Church."

Augustina straightened herself, with an unconscious arrogance. Laura looked at her, smiling.

"Who settles it, then?"

"Why, his director, of course. He must have leave. But they have given him leave. He has chosen a rule for himself"—Augustina gave a visible gulp—"and he called Mrs. Denton to him before Lent, and told her about it. Of course he'll hide it as much as he can. Catholics must never be singular—never! But if we live in the house with him he can't hide it. And all Lent, he only eats meat on Sundays, and other days—he wrote down a list—— Well, it's like the saints—that's all!—I just cried over it!"

Mrs. Fountain shook with the emotion of saying such things to Laura, but her blue eyes flamed.

"What! fish and eggs?—that kind of thing?" said Laura. "As if there was any hardship in that!"

"Laura! how can you be so unkind?—I must just keep it all to myself.—I won't tell you anything!" cried Augustina in exasperation.

Laura walked away to the window, and stood looking out at the March buds on the sycamores shining above the river.

"Does he make the servants fast too?" she asked presently, turning her head over her shoulder.

"No, no," said her stepmother eagerly; "he's never hard on them—only to himself. The Church doesn't expect anything more than 'abstinence,' you understand—not real fasting—from people like them—people who work hard with their hands. But—I really believe—they do very much as he does. Mrs. Denton seems to keep the house on nothing. Oh! and, Laura—I really can't be always having extra things!"

Mrs. Fountain pushed her breakfast away from her.

"Please remember—nobody settles anything for themselves—in your Church," said Laura. "You know what that doctor—that Catholic doctor—said to you at Folkestone."

Mrs. Fountain sighed.

"And as to Mrs. Denton, I see—that explains the manners. No improvement—till Lent's over?"

"Laura!"

But her stepdaughter, who was at the window again looking out, paid no heed, and presently Augustina said with timid softness:

"Won't you have your breakfast, Laura? You know it's here—on my tray."

Laura turned, and Augustina to her infinite relief saw not frowns, but a face all radiance.

"I've been watching the lambs in the field across the river. Such ridiculous enchanting things!—such jumps—and affectations. And the river's heavenly—and all the general feel of it! I really don't know, Augustina, how you ever came to leave this country when you'd once been born in it."

Mrs. Fountain pushed away her tray, shook her head sadly, and said nothing.

"What is it?—and who is it?" cried Laura, standing amazed before a picture in the drawing-room at Bannisdale.

In front of her, on the panelled wall, hung a dazzling portrait of a girl in white, a creature light as a flower under wind; eyes upraised and eager, as though to welcome a lover; fair hair bound turban-like with a white veil; the pretty hands playing with a book. It shone from the brown wall with a kind of natural sovereignty over all below it and around it, so brilliant was the picture, so beautiful the woman.

Augustina looked up drearily. She was sitting shrunk together in a large chair, deep in some thoughts of her own.

"That's our picture—the famous picture," she explained slowly.

"Your Romney?" said Laura, vaguely recalling some earlier talk of her stepmother's.

Augustina nodded. She stared at the picture with a curious agitation, as though she were seeing its long familiar glories for the first time. Laura was much puzzled by her.

"Well, but it's magnificent!" cried the girl. "One needn't know much to know that. How can Mr. Helbeck call himself poor while he possesses such a thing?"

Augustina started.

"It's worth thousands," she said hastily. "We know that. There was a man from London came once, years ago. But papa turned him out—he would never sell his things. And she was our great-grandmother."

An idea flashed through Laura's mind.

"You don't mean to say that Mr. Helbeck is going to sell her?" said Laura impetuously. "It would be a shame!"

"Alan can do what he likes with anything," said Augustina in a quick resentment. "And he wants money badly for one of his orphanages—some of it has to be rebuilt. Oh! those orphanages—how they must have weighed on him—poor Alan!—poor dear Alan!—all these years!"

Mrs. Fountain clasped her thin hands together, with a sigh.

"Is it they that have eaten up the house bit by bit?—poor house!—poor dear house!" repeated Laura.

She was staring with an angry championship at the picture. Its sweet confiding air—as of one cradled in love, happy for generations in the homage of her kindred and the shelter of the old house—stood for all the natural human things that creeds and bigots were always trampling under foot.

Mrs. Fountain, however, only shook her head.

"I don't think Alan's settled anything yet. Only Mrs. Denton's afraid.—There was somebody came to see it a few days ago——"

"He certainly ought not to sell it," repeated Laura with emphasis. "He has to think of the people that come after. What will they care for orphanages? He only holds the picture in trust."

"There will be no one to come after," said Augustina slowly. "For of course he will never marry."

"Is he too great a saint for that too?" cried Laura. "Then all I can say,
Augustina, is that—it—would—do him a great deal of good."

She beat her little foot on the ground impatiently, pointing the words.

"You don't know anything about him, Laura," said Mrs. Fountain, with an attempt at spirit. Then she added reproachfully: "And I'm sure he wants to be kind to you."

"He thinks me a little heretical toad, thank you!" said Laura, spinning round on the bare boards, and dropping a curtsey to the Romney. "But never mind, Augustina—we shall get on quite properly. Now, aren't there a great many more rooms to see?"

Augustina rose uncertainly. "There is the chapel, of course," she said, "and Alan's study——"

"Oh! we needn't go there," said Laura hastily. "But show me the chapel."

Mr. Helbeck was still absent, and they had been exploring Bannisdale. It was a melancholy progress they had been making through a house that had once—when Augustina left it—stood full of the hoardings and the treasures of generations, and was now empty and despoiled.

It was evident that, for his sister's welcome, Mr. Helbeck had gathered into the drawing-room, as into her bedroom upstairs, the best of what still remained to him. Chairs and tables, and straight-lined sofas, some of one date, some of another, collected from the garrets and remote corners of the old house, and covered with the oddest variety of faded stuffs, had been stiffly set out by Mrs. Denton upon an old Turkey carpet, whereof the rents and patches had been concealed as much as possible. Here at least was something of a cosmos—something of order and of comfort.

The hall too, and the dining-room, in spite of their poor new furnishings, were still human and habitable. But most of the rooms on which Laura and Mrs. Fountain had been making raid were like that first one Laura had visited, mere homes of lumber and desolation. Blinds drawn; dust-motes dancing in the stray shafts of light that struck across the gloom of the old walls and floors. Here and there some lingering fragment of fine furniture; but as a rule bareness, poverty, and void—nothing could be more piteous, or, to Mrs. Fountain's memory, more surprising. For some years before she left Bannisdale, her father had not known where to turn for a pound of ready money. Yet when she fled from it, the house and its treasures were still intact.

The explanation of course was very simple. Alan Helbeck had been living upon his house, as upon any other capital. Or rather he had been making alms of it. The house stood gashed and bare that Catholic orphans might be put to school—was that it? Laura hardly listened to Augustina's plaintive babble as they crossed the hall. It was all about Alan, of course—Alan's virtues, Alan's charities. As for the orphans, the girl hated the thought of them. Grasping little wretches! She could see them all in a sanctimonious row, their eyes cast up, and rosaries—like the one Augustina was always trying to hide from her—in their ugly little hands.

They turned down a long stone passage leading to the chapel. As they neared the chapel door there was a sound of voices from the hall at their back.

"It's Alan," said Augustina peering, "and Father Bowles!"

She hurried back to meet them, skirts and cap-strings flying. Laura stood still.

But after a few words with his sister, Helbeck came up to his guest with outstretched hand.

"I hope we have not kept you waiting for dinner. May I introduce Father
Bowles to you?"

Laura bowed with all the stiffness of which a young back is capable. She saw an old grey-haired priest, with a round face and a pair of chubby hands, which he constantly held crossed or clasped upon his breast. His long irregular-mouth seemed to fold over at the corners above his very small and childish chin. The mouth and the light blue eyes wore an expression of rather mincing gentleness. His short figure, though bent a little with years, was still vigorous, and his gait quick and bustling.

He addressed Miss Fountain with a lisping and rather obsequious politeness, asking a great many unnecessary questions about her journey and her arrival.

Laura answered coldly. But when he passed to Mrs. Fountain, Augustina was all effusion.

"When I think what has been granted to us since I was here last!" she said to the priest as they moved on,—clasping her hands, and flushing.

"The dear Bishop took such trouble about it," he said in a little murmuring voice. "It was not easy—but the Church loves to content her children."

Involuntarily Laura glanced at Helbeck.

"My sister refers to the permission which has been granted to us to reserve the Blessed Sacrament in the chapel," he said gravely. "It is a privilege we never enjoyed till last year."

Laura made no reply.

"Shall I slip away?" she thought, looking round her.

But at that moment Mr. Helbeck lifted the heavy latch of the chapel door; and her young curiosity was too strong for her. She followed the others.

Mr. Helbeck held the door open for her.

"You will perhaps care to look at the frescoes," he said to her as she hurried past him. She nodded, and walked quickly away to the left, by herself. Then she turned and looked about her.

It was the first time that she had entered a Catholic church, and every detail was new to her. She watched the other three sign themselves with holy water and drop low on one knee before the altar. So that was the altar. She stared at it with a scornful repugnance; yet her pulse quickened as though what she saw excited her. What was that erection above it, with a veil of red silk drawn round it—and why was that lamp burning in front of it?

She recalled Mr. Helbeck's words—"permission to reserve the Blessed Sacrament." Then, in a flash, a hundred vague memories, the deposit of a hearsay knowledge, enlightened her. She knew and remembered much less than any ordinary girl would have done. But still, in the main, she guessed at what was passing. That of course was the Sacrament, before which Mr. Helbeck and the others were kneeling!—for instinctively she felt that it was to no empty shrine the adoration of those silent figures was being offered.

Fragments from Augustina's talk at Folkestone came back to her. Once she had overheard some half-whispered conversation between her stepmother and a Catholic friend, from which she had vaguely understood that the "Blessed Sacrament" was kept in the Catholic churches, was always there, and that the faithful "visited" it—that these "visits" were indeed specially recommended as a means to holiness. And she recalled how, as they came home from their daily walk to the beach, Mrs. Fountain would disappear from her, through the shadowy door of a Catholic church that stood in the same street as their lodgings—how she would come home half an hour afterwards, shaken with fresh ardours, fresh remorse.

But how could such a thing be allowed, be possible, in a private chapel—in a room that was really part of a private house? GOD—the Christ of Calvary—in that gilt box, upon that altar!

The young girl's arms fell by her side in a sudden rigidity. A wave of the most passionate repulsion swept through her. What a gross, what an intolerable superstition!—how was she to live with it, beside it? The next instant it was as though her hand clasped her father's—clinging to him proudly, against this alien world. Why should she feel lonely?—the little heretic, left standing there alone in her distant corner. Let her rather rejoice that she was her father's daughter!

She drew herself up, and coolly looked about her. The worshippers had risen; long as the time had seemed to Laura, they had only been two or three minutes on their knees; and she could see that Augustina was talking eagerly to her brother, pointing now to the walls, now to the altar.

It seemed as though Augustina were no less astonished than her stepdaughter by the magnificence of the chapel. Was it all new,—the frescoes, the altar with its marble and its gold, the white figure of the Virgin, which gleamed above the small side-altar to the left? It had the air of newness and of costliness, an air which struck the eye all the more sharply because of the contrast between it and the penury, the starvation, of the great house that held the chapel in its breast.

But while Laura was still wondering at the general impression of rich beauty, at the Lenten purple of the altar, at the candelabra, and the perfume, certain figures and colours on the wall close to her seized her, thrusting the rest aside. On either side of the altar, the walls to right and left, from the entrance up to the sanctuary, were covered with what appeared to be recent painting—painting, indeed, that was still in the act. On either hand, long rows of life-sized saints, men and women, turned their adoring faces towards the Christ looking down upon them from a crucifix above the tabernacle. On the north wall, about half the row was unfinished; faces, haloes, drapery, strongly outlined in red, still waited for the completing hand of the artist. The rest glowed and burned with colour—colour the most singular, the most daring. The carnations and rose colours, the golds and purples, the blues and lilacs and greens—in the whole concert of tone, in spite of its general simplicity of surface, there was something at once ravishing and troubling, something that spoke as it were from passion to passion.

Laura's nature felt the thrill of it at once, just as she had felt the thrill of the sunshine lighting up the tapestry of her room.

"Why isn't it crude and hideous?" she asked herself, in a marvel. "But it isn't. One never saw such blues—except in the sea—or such greens—and rose! And the angels between!—and the flowers under their feet!—Heavens! how lovely! Who did it?"

"Do you admire the frescoes?" said a little voice behind her.

She turned hastily, and saw Father Bowles smiling upon her, his plump white hands clasped in front of him, as usual. It was an attitude which seemed to make the simplest words sound intimate and possessive. Laura shrank from, it in quick annoyance.

"They are very strange, and—and startling," she said stiffly, moving as far away from the grey-haired priest as possible. "Who painted them?"

"Mr. Helbeck first designed them. But they were carried out for a time by a youth of great genius." Father Bowles dwelt softly upon the word "ge-nius," as though he loved it. "He was once a lad from these parts, but has now become a Jesuit. So the work was stopped."

"What a pity!" said Laura impetuously. "He ought to have been a painter."

The priest smiled, and made her an odd little bow. Then, without saying anything more about the artist, he chattered on about the frescoes and the chapel, as though he had beside him the most sympathetic of listeners. Nothing that he said was the least interesting or striking; and Laura, in a passion of silent dislike, kept up a steady movement towards the door all the time.

In the passage outside Mrs. Fountain was lingering alone. And when Laura appeared she caught hold of her stepdaughter and detained her while the priest passed on. Laura looked at her in surprise, and Mrs. Fountain, in much agitation, whispered in the girl's ear:

"Oh, Laura—do remember, dear!—don't ask Alan about those pictures—those frescoes—by young Williams. I can tell you some time—and you might say something to hurt him—poor Alan!"

Laura drew herself away.

"Why should I say anything to hurt him? What's the mystery?"

"I can't tell you now"—Mrs. Fountain looked anxiously towards the hall. "People have been so hard on Alan—so unkind about it! It's been a regular persecution. And you wouldn't understand—wouldn't sympathise——"

"I really don't care to know about it, Augustina! And I'm so hungry—famished! Look, there's Mr. Helbeck signing to us. Joy!—that's dinner."

* * * * *

Laura expected the midday meal with some curiosity. But she saw no signs of austerity. Mr. Helbeck pressed the roast chicken on Father Bowles, took pains that he should enjoy a better bottle of wine than usual, and as to himself ate and drank very moderately indeed, but like anybody else. Laura could only imagine that it was not seemly to outdo your priest.

The meal of course was served in the simplest way, and all the waiting was done by Mr. Helbeck, who would allow nobody to help him in the task.

The conversation dragged. Laura and her host talked a little about the country and the weather. Father Bowles and Augustina tried to pick up the dropped threads of thirteen years; and Mrs. Fountain was alternately eager for Whinthorpe gossip, or reduced to an abrupt unhappy silence by some memory of the past.

Suddenly Father Bowles got up from his chair, ran across the room to the window with his napkin in his hand, and pounced eagerly upon a fly that was buzzing on the pane. Then he carefully opened the window, and flicked the dead thing off the sill.

"I beg your pardon," he said humbly to Mrs. Fountain as he returned to his seat. "It was a nasty fly. I can't abide 'em. I always think of Beelzebub, who was the prince of the flies."

Laura's mouth twitched with laughter. She promised herself to make a study of Father Bowles.

And, indeed, he was a character in his own small way. He was a priest of an old-fashioned type, with no pretensions to knowledge or to manners. Wherever he went he was a meek and accommodating guest, for his recollection went back to days when a priest coming to a private house to say Mass would as likely as not have his meals in the pantry. And he was naturally of a gentle and yielding temper—though rather sly.

But he had several tricks as curious as they were persistent. Not even the presence of his bishop could make him spare a bluebottle. And he had, on the other hand, a peculiar passion for the smell of wax. He would blow out a candle on the altar before the end of Mass that he might enjoy the smell of it. He disliked Jesuits, and religious generally, if the truth were known; excepting only the orphanage nuns, who knew his weaknesses and were kind to them. He had no love for modern innovations, or modern devotions; there was a hidden Gallican strain in him; and he firmly believed that in the old days before Catholic emancipation, and before the Oxford movement, the Church made more converts than she did now.

* * * * *

Towards the end of the lunch Laura inquired of Mr. Helbeck whether any conveyance was to be got in the village.

"I wish to go to Browhead Farm this afternoon," she said rather shortly.

"Certainly," said Helbeck. "Certainly. I will see that something is found for you."

But his voice had no cordiality, and Laura at once thought him ungracious.

"Oh, pray don't give yourself any trouble," she said, flushing, "I can walk to the village."

Helbeck paused.

"If you could wait till to-morrow," he said after a moment, "I could promise you the pony. Unfortunately he is busy this afternoon."

"Oh, do wait, Laura!" cried Augustina. "There is so much unpacking to do."

"Very well," said the girl unwillingly.

As she turned away from him Helbeck's look followed her. She was in a dress of black serge, which followed the delicate girlish frame with perfect simplicity, and was relieved at the neck and wrists with the plainest of white collars and cuffs. But there was something so brilliant in the hair, so fawnlike in the carriage of the head, that she seemed to Helbeck to be all elegance; had he been asked to describe her, he would have said she was in grande toilette. Little as he spoke to her, he found himself perpetually conscious of her. Her evident—childishly evident—dislike of her new surroundings half amused, half embarrassed him. He did not know what topic to start with her; soon, perhaps, he might have a difficulty in keeping the peace! It was all very absurd.

After luncheon they gathered in the hall for a while, Father Bowles talking eagerly with Helbeck and Augustina about "orphans" and "new buildings." Laura stood apart awhile—then went for her hat.

When she reappeared, in walking dress—with Fricka at her heels—Helbeck opened the heavy outer door for her.

"May I have Bruno?" she said.

Helbeck turned and whistled.

"You are not afraid?" he said, smiling, and looking at Fricka.

"Oh, dear no! I spent an hour this morning introducing them."

At that moment Bruno came bounding up. He looked from his master to Laura in her hat, and seemed to hesitate. Then, as she descended the steps, he sprang after her. Laura began to run; the two dogs leapt about her; her light voice, checking or caressing, came back to Helbeck on the spring wind. He watched her and her companions so long as they were in sight—the golden hair among the trees, the dancing steps of the girl, the answering frolic of the dogs.

Then he turned back to his sister, his grave mouth twitching.

"How thankful she is to get rid of us!"

He laughed out. The priest laughed, too, more softly.

"It was the first time, I presume, that Miss Fountain had ever been within a Catholic church?" he said to Augustina.

Augustina flushed.

"Of course it is the first time. Oh! Alan, you can't think how strange it is to her."

She looked rather piteously at her brother.

"So I perceive," he said. "You told me something, but I had not realised——"

"You see, Alan—" cried Augustina, watching her brother's face,—"it was with the greatest difficulty that her mother got Stephen to consent even to her being baptized. He opposed it for a long time."

Father Bowles murmured something under his breath.

Helbeck paused for a moment, then said:

"What was her mother like?"

"Everyone at Cambridge used to say she was 'a sweet woman'—but—but Stephen,—well, you know, Alan, Stephen always had his way! I always wonder she managed to persuade him about the baptism."

She coloured still more deeply as she spoke, and her nervous infirmity became more pronounced. Alas! it was not only with the first wife that Stephen had had his way! Her own marriage had begun to seem to her a mere sinful connection. Poor soul—poor Augustina!

Her brother must have divined something of what was passing in her mind, for he looked down upon her with a peculiar gentleness.

"People are perhaps more ready to talk of that responsibility than to take it," he said kindly. "But, Augustina,—" his voice changed,—"how pretty she is!—You hardly prepared me——"

Father Bowles modestly cast down his eyes. These were not questions that concerned him. But Helbeck went on, speaking with decision, and looking at his sister:

"I confess—her great attractiveness makes me a little anxious—about the connection with the Masons. Have you ever seen any of them, Augustina?"

No—Augustina had seen none of them. She believed Stephen had particularly disliked the mother, the widow of his cousin, who now owned the farm jointly with her son.

"Well, no," said Helbeck dryly, "I don't suppose he and she would have had much in common."

"Isn't she a dreadful Protestant—Alan?"

"Oh, she's just a specimen of the ordinary English Bible-worship run mad," he said, carelessly. "She is a strange woman, very well known about here. And there's a foolish parson living near them, up in the hills, who makes her worse. But it's the son I'm thinking of."

"Why, Alan—isn't he respectable?"

"Not particularly. He's a splendid athletic fellow—doing his best to make himself a blackguard, I'm afraid. I've come across him once or twice, as it happens. He's not a desirable cousin for Miss Fountain—that I can vouch for! And unluckily," he smiled, "Miss Fountain won't hear any good of this house at Browhead Farm."

Even Augustina drew herself up proudly.

"My dear Alan, what does it matter what that sort of people think?"

He shook his head.

"It's a queer business. They were mixed up with young Williams."

Augustina started.

"Mrs. Mason was a great friend of his mother, who died. They hate me like poison. However——"

The priest interposed.

"Mrs. Mason is a very violent, a most unseemly woman," he said, in his mincing voice. "And the father—the old man—who is now dead, was concerned in the rioting near the bridge——"

"When Alan was struck? Mrs. Denton told me! How abominable!"

Augustina raised her hands in mingled reprobation and distress.

Helbeck looked annoyed.

"That doesn't matter one brass farthing," he said, in some haste. "Father Bowles was much worse treated than I on that occasion. But you see the whole thing is unlucky—it makes it difficult to give Miss Fountain the hints one would like to give her."

He threw himself down beside his sister, talking to her in low tones.
Father Bowles took up the local paper.

Presently Augustina broke out—with another wringing of the hands.

"Don't put it on me, my dear Alan! I tell you—Laura has always done exactly what she liked since she was a baby."

Mr. Helbeck rose. His face and air already expressed a certain haughtiness; and at his sister's words there was a very definite tightening of the shoulders.

"I do not intend to have Hubert Mason hanging about the house," he said quietly, as he thrust his hands into his pockets.

"Of course not!—but she wouldn't expect it," cried Augustina in dismay. "It's the keeping her away from them, that's the difficulty. She thinks so much of her cousins, Alan. They're her father's only relations. I know she'll want to be with them half her time!"

"For love of them—or dislike of us? Oh! I dare say it will be all right," he added abruptly. "Father Bowles, shall I drive you half-way? The pony will be round directly."