ord more passed between his guest and himself
that morning.

Before post-time, on the same day, Father Benwell wrote his last report
to the Secretary of the Society of Jesus, in these lines:

"Romayne is free from the domestic ties that bound him. He leaves it to
me to restore Vange Abbey to the Church; and he acknowledges a vocation
for the priesthood. Expect us at Rome in a fortnight's time."

AFTER THE STORY.

EXTRACTS FROM BERNARD WINTERFIELD'S DIARY.

I.

WINTERFIELD DEFENDS HIMSELF.

Beaupark House, June 17th, 18--.

You and I, Cousin Beeminster, seldom meet. But I occasionally hear of
you, from friends acquainted with both of us.

I have heard of you last at Sir Philip's rent-day dinner a week since.
My name happened to be mentioned by one of the gentlemen present, a
guest like yourself. You took up the subject of your own free will, and
spoke of me in these terms:

"I am sorry to say it of the existing head of the family--but Bernard is
really unfit for the position which he holds. He has, to say the least
of it, compromised himself and his relatives on more than one occasion.
He began as a young man by marrying a circus-rider. He got into some
other scrape, after that, which he has contrived to keep a secret from
us. We only know how disgraceful it must have been by the results--he
was a voluntary exile from England for more than a year. And now,
to complete the list, he has mixed himself up in that miserable and
revolting business of Lewis Romayne and his wife."

If any other person had spoken of me in this manner, I should have set
him down as a mischievous idiot--to be kicked perhaps, but not to be
noticed in any other way.

With you, the case is different. If I die without male offspring, the
Beaupark estate goes to you, as next heir.

I don't choose to let a man in this position slander me, and those dear
to me, without promptly contradicting him. The name I bear is precious
to me, in memory of my father. Your unanswered allusion to my relations
with "Lewis Romayne and his wife," coming from a member of the family,
will be received as truth. Rather than let this be, I reveal to you,
without reserve, some of the saddest passages of my life. I have nothing
to be ashamed of--and, if I have hitherto kept certain events in the
dark, it has been for the sake of others, not for my own sake. I know
better now. A woman's reputation--if she is a good woman--is not easily
compromised by telling t