I suppose, because you like it."

"Oh really, my dear mother," cried he, "if you saw my heart! You know in
Scripture how people were obliged in the Apostles' times to give up all
for Christ."

"We are heathens, then," she replied; "thank you, Charles, I am obliged
to you for this;" and she dashed away a tear from her eye.

Charles was almost beside himself; he did not know what to say; he stood
up, and leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece, supporting his head on his
hand.

"Well, Charles," she continued, still going on with her work, "perhaps
the day will come" ... her voice faltered; "your dear father" ... she
put down her work.

"It is useless misery," said Charles; "why should I stay? good-bye for
the present, my dearest mother. I leave you in good hands, not kinder,
but better than mine; you lose me, you gain another. Farewell for the
present; we will meet when you will, when you call; it will be a happy
meeting."

He threw himself on his knees, and laid his cheek on her lap; she could
no longer resist him; she hung over him, and began to smooth down his
hair as she had done when he was a child. At length scalding tears began
to fall heavily upon his face and neck; he bore them for a while, then
started up, kissed her cheek impetuously, and rushed out of the room. In
a few seconds he had seen and had torn himself from his sisters, and was
in his gig again by the side of his phlegmatic driver, dancing slowly up
and down on his way to Collumpton.

CHAPTER II.

The reader may ask whither Charles is going, and, though it would not be
quite true to answer that he did not know better than the said reader
himself, yet he had most certainly very indistinct notions what was
becoming of him even locally, and, like the Patriarch, "went out, not
knowing whither he went." He had never seen a Catholic priest, to know
him, in his life; never, except once as a boy, been inside a Catholic
church; he only knew one Catholic in the world, and where he was he did
not know. But he knew that the Passionists had a Convent in London; and
it was not unnatural that, without knowing whether young Father Aloysius
was there or not, he should direct his course to San Michaele.

Yet, in kindness to Mary and all of them, he did not profess to be
leaving direct for London; but he proposed to betake himself to Carlton,
who still resided in Oxford, and to ask his advice what was to be done
under his circumstances. It seemed, too, to