ful members
of the Church on the good offices of the priesthood?" He paused for a
moment, and continued with the abruptness of a man struck by a new idea.
"Yes! I have perhaps one small aim of my own--the claim of being allowed
to do my duty."

"In what respect, dear Romayne?"

"Surely you can guess? I am a rich man; I have money lying idle,
which it is my duty (and my privilege) to devote to the charities and
necessities of the Church. And, while I am speaking of this, I must own
that I am a little surprised at your having said nothing to me on the
subject. You have never yet pointed out to me the manner in which I
might devote my money to the best and noblest uses. Was it forgetfulness
on your part?"

Father Benwell shook his head. "No," he replied; "I can't honestly say
that."

"Then you had a reason for your silence?"

"Yes."

"May I not know it?"

Father Benwell got up and walked to the fireplace. Now there are various
methods of getting up and walking to a fireplace, and they find their
way to outward expression through the customary means of look and
manner. We may feel cold, and may only want to warm ourselves. Or we may
feel restless, and may need an excuse for changing our position. Or
we may feel modestly confused, and may be anxious to hide it. Father
Benwell, from head to foot, expressed modest confusion, and polite
anxiety to hide it.

"My good friend," he said, "I am afraid of hurting your feelings."

Romayne was a sincere convert, but there were instincts still left in
him which resented this expression of regard, even when it proceeded
from a man whom he respected and admired. "You will hurt my feelings,"
he answered, a little sharply, "if you are not plain with me."

"Then I _will_ be plain with you," Father Benwell rejoined. "The
Church--speaking through me, as her unworthy interpreter--feels a
certain delicacy in approaching You on the subject of money."

"Why?"

Father Benwell left the fireplace without immediately answering. He
opened a drawer and took out of it a flat mahogany box. His gracious
familiarity became transformed, by some mysterious process of
congelation, into a dignified formality of manner. The priest took the
place of the man.

"The Church, Mr. Romayne, hesitates to receive, as benevolent
contributions, money derived from property of its own, arbitrarily taken
from it, and placed in a layman's hands. No!" he cried, interrupting
Romayne, who instantly understood t