est self-distrust of a
maiden of fifteen. "I am really so ignorant, I hardly know how to put
it. But learned persons have told me that it is the peculiarity of the
Jews--may I say, the amiable peculiarity?--never to make converts. It
would be so nice if you would take a leaf out of their book, when we
have the happiness of receiving you here. My lively imagination pictures
you in a double character. Father Benwell everywhere else; and--say, the
patriarch Abraham at Ten Acres Lodge."

Father Benwell lifted his persuasive hands in courteous protest. "My
dear lady! pray make your mind easy. Not one word on the subject of
religion has passed between Mr. Romayne and myself--"

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Eyrecourt interposed, "I am afraid I fail to
follow you. My silent son-in-law looks as if he longed to smother me,
and my attention is naturally distracted. You were about to say--?"

"I was about to say, dear Mrs. Eyrecourt, that you are alarming yourself
without any reason. Not one word, on any controversial subject, has
passed--"

Mrs. Eyrecourt cocked her head, with the artless vivacity of a bird.
"Ah, but it might, though!" she suggested, slyly.

Father Benwell once more remonstrated in dumb show, and Romayne lost his
temper.

"Mrs. Eyrecourt!" he cried, sternly.

Mrs. Eyrecourt screamed, and lifted her hands to her ears. "I am
not deaf, dear Romayne, and I am not to be put down by any ill-timed
exhibition of, what I may call, domestic ferocity. Father Benwell sets
you an example of Christian moderation. Do, please, follow it."

Romayne refused to follow it.

"Talk on any other topic that you like, Mrs. Eyrecourt. I request
you--don't oblige me to use a harder word--I request you to spare
Father Benwell and myself any further expression of your opinion on
controversial subjects."

A son-in-law may make a request, and a mother-in-law may decline to
comply. Mrs. Eyrecourt declined to comply.

"No, Romayne, it won't do. I may lament your unhappy temper, for my
daughter's sake--but I know what I am about, and you can't provoke me.
Our reverend friend and I understand each other. He will make allowances
for a sensitive woman, who has had sad experience of conversions in
her own household. My eldest daughter, Father Benwell--a poor foolish
creature--was converted into a nunnery. The last time I saw her (she
used to be sweetly pretty; my dear husband quite adored her)--the last
time I saw her she had a red nose, an