land this afternoon," she answered, "for Rome."

"Why does he tell this to you, and not to me?" Romayne asked.

"He cannot trust himself to speak of it to you. He begged me to prepare
you--"

Her courage failed her. She paused. Romayne beat his hand impatiently on
the desk before him. "Speak out!" he cried. "If Rome is not the end of
the journey--what is?"

Stella hesitated no longer.

"He goes to Rome," she said "to receive his instructions, and to become
personally acquainted with the missionaries who are associated with him.
They will leave Leghorn in the next vessel which sets sail for a port
in Central America. And the dangerous duty intrusted to them is to
re-establish one of the Jesuit Missions destroyed by the savages years
since. They will find their church a ruin, and not a vestige left of the
house once inhabited by the murdered priests. It is not concealed from
them that they may be martyred, too. They are soldiers of the Cross; and
they go--willingly go--to save the souls of the Indians, at the peril of
their lives."

Romayne rose, and advanced to the door. There, he turned, and spoke to
Stella. "Where is Arthur?" he said.

Stella gently detained him.

"There was one word more he entreated me to say--pray wait and hear
it," she pleaded. "His one grief is at leaving You. Apart from that, he
devotes himself gladly to the dreadful service which claims him. He has
long looked forward to it, and has long prepared himself for it. Those,
Lewis, are his own words."

There was a knock at the door. The servant appeared, to announce that
the carriage was waiting.

Penrose entered the room as the man left it.

"Have you spoken for me?" he said to Stella. She could only answer him
by a gesture. He turned to Romayne with a faint smile.

"The saddest of all words must be spoken," he said. "Farewell!"

Pale and trembling, Romayne took his hand. "Is this Father Benwell's
doing?" he asked.

"No!" Penrose answered firmly. "In Father Benwell's position it might
have been his doing, but for his goodness to me. For the first time
since I have known him he has shrunk from a responsibility. For my sake
he has left it to Rome. And Rome has spoken. Oh, my more than friend--my
brother in love--!"

His voice failed him. With a resolution which was nothing less than
heroic in a man of his affectionate nature, he recovered his composure.

"Let us make it as little miserable as it _can_ be," he said. "At every
opport