n in some easy bishopric, or Van Mildert deanery. I want
neither London nor Canterbury: they will never suit me. But I want
money, because I am poor and have children; and I desire character,
because I cannot live without it."

"Isn't that simply delicious?" said Father Letheby, laying down the
review, and challenging my admiration.

"Poor fellow," I could not help saying; "the last little bit of pathos
about his children gilds the wretched picture. Who was he?"

"No less a person than Dr. Lloyd, Regius Professor of Divinity in
Oxford, and _the_ originator of the Tractarian Movement. But can you
conceive a Catholic priest writing such a letter?"

"No," I replied slowly, "I cannot. But I can conceive a Catholic priest
thinking it. I am not so much unlike the rest of mankind; and I remember
when I came out on the mission, and had time to look around me, like a
chicken just out of its shell, two things gave me a shock of intense
surprise. First, I could not conceive how the Catholic Church had got on
for eighteen hundred years without my cooperation and ability; and,
secondly, I could not understand what fatuity possessed the Bishop to
appoint as his vicar-general a feeble old man of seventy, who preached
with hesitation, and, it was whispered, believed the world was flat, and
that people were only joking when they spoke of it as a globe; and pass
over such a paragon of perfection, an epitome of all the talents, like
myself. It took me many years to recover from that surprise; and, alas!
a little trace of it lingers yet. Believe me, my dear young friend, a
good many of us are as alien in spirit to the _Imitation_ as Dr. Lloyd,
but we must not say it."

"By Jove!" he said, "I thought there was but one other Dr. Lloyd in the
world, and that was Father James----," mentioning the name of my morning
visitor.

It was the first chink I had seen in the armor of my young Goliath, and
I put in my rapier.

"You are not very busy?" I said.

"No, Father," he replied, surprised.

"Would you have time to listen to a little story?"

"Certainly," he said, settling back in his chair, his head on his hands.

"Well," I said slowly, "in the first years of my mission I had a fellow
curate, a good many years younger than myself. I consequently looked
down on him, especially as he was slightly pompous in his manner and too
much addicted to Latin and French quotations. In fact, he looked quite a
hollow fellow, and appar