bear on my sister.  She declared her intention of entering a convent.  As she was under age, my father had only to interpose his authority to prevent this.  She was his favorite child.  He had no heart to restrain her by force—­he could only try all that the kindest and best of fathers could do to persuade her to remain at home.  Even after the years that have passed, I cannot trust myself to speak of it composedly.  She persisted; she was as hard as stone.  My aunt, when she was entreated to interfere, called her heartless obstinacy ‘a vocation.’  My poor father’s loving resistance was worn out; he slowly drew nearer and nearer to death, from the day when she left us.  Let me do her justice, if I can.  She has not only never regretted entering the convent—­she is so happily absorbed in her religious duties that she has not the slightest wish to see her mother or me.  My mother’s patience was soon worn out.  The last time I went to the convent, I went by myself.  I shall never go there again.  She could not conceal her sense of relief when I took my leave of her.  I need say no more.  Arguments are thrown away on me, Mr. Penrose, after what I have seen and felt.  I have no right to expect that the consideration of my happiness will influence you—­but I may perhaps ask you, as a gentleman, to tell me the truth.  Do you come here with the purpose of converting my husband?”

Penrose owned the truth, without an instant’s hesitation.

“I cannot take your view of your sister’s pious devotion of herself to a religious life,” he said.  “But I can, and will, answer you truly.  From the time when I first knew him, my dearest object has been to convert your husband to the Catholic Faith.”

Stella drew back from him, as if he had stung her, and clasped her hands in silent despair.

“But I am bound as a Christian,” he went on, “to do to others as I would they should do to me.”

She turned on him suddenly, her beautiful face radiant with hope, her hand trembling as it caught him by the arm.

“Speak plainly!” she cried.

He obeyed her to the letter.

“The happiness of my friend’s wife, Mrs. Romayne, is sacred to me for his sake.  Be the good angel of your husband’s life.  I abandon the purpose of converting him.”

He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it respectfully to his lips.  Then, when he had bound himself by a promise that was sacred to him, the terrible influence of the priesthood shook even that brave and lofty soul.  He said to himself, as he left her, “God forgive me if I have done wrong!”

CHAPTER III.

WINTERFIELD RETURNS.

TWICE Father Benwell called at Derwent’s Hotel, and twice he was informed that no news had been received there of Mr. Winterfield.  At the third attempt, his constancy was rewarded.  Mr. Winterfield had written, and was expected to arrive at the hotel by five o’clock.