ne of
the private rooms at The Retreat, devoted to the use of the priesthood.
The demure attendant, waiting humbly for instructions, was sent
to request the presence of one of the inmates of the house, named
Mortleman.

Father Benwell's customary serenity was a little ruffled, on this
occasion, by an appearance of anxiety. More than once he looked
impatiently toward the door, and he never even noticed the last new
devotional publications laid invitingly on the table.

Mr. Mortleman made his appearance--a young man and a promising convert.
The wild brightness of his eyes revealed that incipient form of brain
disease which begins in fanaticism, and ends not infrequently in
religious madness. His manner of greeting the priest was absolutely
servile. He cringed before the illustrious Jesuit.

Father Benwell took no notice of these demonstrations of humility.
"Be seated, my son," he said. Mr. Mortleman looked as if he would have
preferred going down on his knees, but he yielded, and took a chair.

"I think you have been Mr. Romayne's companion for a few days, in the
hours of recreation?" the priest began.

"Yes, Father."

"Does he appear to be at all weary of his residence in this house?"

"Oh, far from it! He feels the benign influence of The Retreat; we have
had some delightful hours together."

"Have you anything to report?"

Mr. Mortleman crossed his hands on his breast and bowed profoundly.
"I have to report of myself, Father, that I have committed the sin of
presumption. I presumed that Mr. Romayne was, like myself, not married."

"Have I spoken to you on that subject?"

"No, Father."

"Then you have committed no sin. You have only made an excusable
mistake. How were you led into error?"

"In this way, Father. Mr. Romayne had been speaking to me of a book
which you had been so good as to send to him. He had been especially
interested by the memoir therein contained of the illustrious
Englishman, Cardinal Acton. The degrees by which his Eminence rose to
the rank of a Prince of the Church seemed, as I thought, to have aroused
in my friend a new sense of vocation. He asked me if I myself aspired
to belong to the holy priesthood. I answered that this was indeed my
aspiration, if I might hope to be found worthy. He appeared to be deeply
affected. I ventured to ask if he too had the same prospect before him.
He grieved me indescribably. He sighed and said, 'I have no such hope; I
am married.' Tell me Father,