the
world!

That was a happy week he spent--mostly in Antwerp among the
painters. He got no more letters from Martia, not for many days to
come; but he felt the north every night as he sank into healthy
sleep, and woke in the morning full of hope and confidence in
himself--at last _sans peur et sans reproche_.

One day in Brussels he met M. Noiret, who naturally put on a very
grave face; they shook hands, and Barty inquired affectionately
after the little Italian greyhound, and asked what was the French
for "_punctum coecum_."

Said Noiret: "Ca s'appelle _le point cache_--c'est une portion de la
retine avec laquelle on ne peut pas voir...."

Barty laughed and shook hands again, and left the Professor staring.

Then he was a great deal with Father Louis. They went to Ghent
together, and other places of interest; and to concerts in Brussels.

The good Dominican was very sorrowful at the prospect of soon losing
his friend. Poor Barty! The trial it was to him not to reveal his
secret to this singularly kind and sympathetic comrade; not even
under the seal of confession! So he did not confess at all; although
he would have confessed anything to Father Louis, even if Father
Louis had not been a priest. There are the high Catholics, who
understand the souls of others, and all the difficulties of the
conscience, and do not proselytize in a hurry; and the low
Catholics, the converts of the day before yesterday, who will not
let a body be!

Father Louis was a very high Catholic indeed.

The Lady Caroline Grey, 12A Scamore Place, London, to M. Josselin,
36 Rue des Ursulines Blanches, Malines:

"My dear little Barty,--Your nice long letter made me very
happy--happy beyond description; it makes me almost jealous to think
that you should have suddenly got so much better in your health and
spirits while I was away: you won't want me any more! That doesn't
prevent my longing to get back to you. You must put up with your
poor old aunty for a little while yet.

"And now for _my_ news--I couldn't write before. Poor papa was
buried on Monday, and we all came back here next day. He has left
you L200: c'est toujours ca! Everything seems in a great mess. Your
Uncle Runswick[1] is going to be very poor indeed; he is going to
let Castle Rohan, and live here all the year round. Poor fellow, he
looks as old as his father did ten years ago, and he's only
sixty-three! If Algy could