rward and methodical: it began with the word "Beloved" and
asked whether certain things were true. It seemed, then, that for the
first time his confession was understood. Not a single one of the
questions put to him contained anything that was untrue, but they did
not go much into detail, and no commentary was made upon the facts
indicated.

Max sat down and wrote a very beautiful letter in reply, and got no
answer.

For three days he put up with this rebuff to his honesty of character
and his literary ability; then not finding his lady where he expected
her to be, he went and called upon her father.

The Archbishop was out; but Max, not to be denied, sat down and waited
for his return. He waited for over two hours. It was getting towards
dusk when his Grace entered, a reverend, high-shouldered figure, showing
a stoop and beginning now to look old.

The Archbishop's very formal greeting told Max that here was the enemy.
This did not at all dismay him; at that time, indeed, he was full of
confidence. The temporary separation between himself and his beloved,
brought about in a conventional way which he thoroughly despised, was
for the moment a hindrance; but it had not yet taken to itself the
colors of doom. He knew that Jenifer's heart was entirely his, and that
they, with their common honesty, had only to meet again to be made one.
What he wanted to know, therefore, was not so much the opinion of
Jenifer's father about himself and the engagement, as to find out her
present whereabouts. From the first moment of their meeting he knew that
he did not stand in the Archbishop's good graces; but that hardly
concerned him; and so it was almost without circumlocution that he asked
for Jenifer's address.

The Archbishop, by a simultaneous depression of the head and raising of
the eyebrows, managed to convey his just sense of the honor which was
being done him and the liberty that was being taken.

"I wrote the other day," explained Max, "asking her to arrange a time
when I might come and see you. In strict etiquette I believe that your
Grace ought first to call upon me; but we have so few precedents to go
by. She has, I trust, done me the honor to tell you that we are
engaged?"

"I have been informed of the circumstance," replied the Archbishop with
stately formality.

The Prince took the matter boldly in hand. "From your manner I have to
presume that we have not the happiness of your consent?"

"My consent was not a