she would devote me to his service. From
that moment, as my mother has often told me, I began to mend. As soon
as a dress of the order could be made for me, I put it on. From that
day I grew and strengthened rapidly, and have not had a day's sickness
since. When old enough I was sent to school, and then served my
noviciate in the Franciscan convent in Villa Vicosa. I am now on leave
to visit my mother and sisters, who live near Ameixial."

"If you had chosen for yourself," L'Isle suggested, "perhaps you would
not have been a friar."

"Perhaps not," said the young friar, hesitating. "Indeed, I have been
lately told, though I am loath to admit it, that, urgent as the
necessity was that gave rise to our order, and great as its services
have been, especially in former days, our holy mother, the Church, can
be better served now, by servants who assume a more polished exterior,
and obeying St. Paul's injunction to be all things to all men, mingle
on a footing of equality with men of this world, although they are not
of it."

"Who told you this?" asked L'Isle.

"A learned and traveled priest, whom I lately met with. He delighted
me with his knowledge, while he startled me by the boldness of some of
his opinions."

"But, perhaps," L'Isle persisted, "if left to your own unbiassed
choice, you would not have taken orders at all."

The young man paused, evidently unable to shut out the thought, "Are
there callings, which, without doing violence to my nature, are
compatible with the service of God?" At length he answered, with a
reserve not usual to him, "It is not every man whose way of life is,
or can be, chosen by himself." Then, crossing himself earnestly, as if
stifling the thought, and trampling down the tempting devil within
him, he exclaimed, "I _must_ believe that my instant recovery from
deadly sickness as soon as I was devoted to St. Francis, proves that
he has chosen me for his service and God's."

He said this eagerly and with an air of sincerity, and again made the
sign of the cross. Yet the doubting devil seemed to linger about him,
and he sunk into silence, seeming little satisfied with himself.
Meanwhile, during his conference with L'Isle and Lady Mabel, old
Moodie stood near, eyeing him with sinister looks, as if he had been
the inventor, not the victim, of the popish system, and all its
corruptions rested on his head. The old man now urged them to take
horse, and allowed them no respite from his bustling