mere weakness, and which she was determined to atone for by most resolutely abstaining from any similar mark of reverence when the benediction was actually given. She was still sitting in the church when a priest came in, and kneeling close to her, began saying his office. With an instinctive feeling of delicacy Edith moved away; she had no idea of what is meant by "recollection;" she thought it must be both distracting and annoying to anyone to say his prayers in a public church at all; and it was from a real wish to relieve him of a discomfort, that she retreated, as she thought, against the wall, where she stood looking at different things that attracted her notice; the priest, however, was her chief object of observation. It struck her as unusual that he should recite his office kneeling, and the evident reality of his devotion attracted her. She watched him as if he had been a picture or a statue, and was consequently somewhat startled when he proved himself to be neither, by quietly walking straight up to her, and asking in Italian if she were waiting for a priest. Not having the least idea what he meant, she took it for an impertinence; and was on the point of giving him a very haughty reply, when she perceived, for the first time, that she was leaning against a confessional, and instantly comprehended both his mistake and her own. Though not naturally either shy or nervous, the novelty of the situation embarrassed her, and she stumbled a little over her words, as she said, "I beg your pardon-I did not see." Then, as if that would in itself of necessity explain everything, she added, "I am English."

The priest suddenly looked up at her with an expression of such keen interest that she fully expected to hear him say, " And I too am English ;". but from whatever cause his emotion proceeded, it was instantly subdued, and he hurriedly made a brief apology, still in Italian, for his mistake, and was turning away, when, as if from some feeling he could not altogether control, he looked back and said earnestly: "May God bless you, and teach you the true faith."

Edith was spared the necessity of making any reply, for before she had even time to open her lips, he was half way down the church.

“What a fool I was to stand here!" was her first thought; her second was, that the sooner she got away the better; and beckoning Leonardo, who had been waiting for her, she walked rapidly out of the church. Several children were congregated round the door, and amongst them stood the priest who had spoken to her. She felt annoyed and irritated; and quite forgetting that of course they could not understand English, impatiently desired the child nearest her to get out of the way and let her pass. The priest smiled, spoke to the children in Italian, who thereupon immediately made way for her, and raising his hat, bowed slightly but very courteously.

"That is Padre Giuseppe," said Leonardo.

Edith turned round and looked him full in the face for a moment; certainly the child was right, he was "not old," and looked exceedingly unlike a dragon. It was not a countenance easily described, except by the single word intensity. He

D

was very dark, his large black eyes were very clear and calm, and yet there was something in them which, as plainly as the lines on his brow, told of storms that had been passed through; as for his age, it certainly could not have been more than forty; he reminded Edith strongly of something or some one she had seen before, but she could not remember where, till after some minutes it occurred to her that it was Ary Scheffer's picture of St. Augustine.

"He is very kind to children, he loves them," she said, speaking her own thoughts rather than addressing the child.

"Oh yes, so much!" he replied; "he plays with us, and tells us such pretty stories; and sometimes he cuts out little horses and dogs in paper for us. He has such a beautiful picture of a horse in his room!"

"Ah, yes!" said Edith, as if it seemed perfectly natural to her that a Jesuit priest should like dogs and horses; "what sort of horse is it ?"

Leonardo was puzzled; a horse was a horse to him, and "nothing more," and he could only reply: "It is brown."

Edith laughed, but asked no more questions; and by this time they had reached their destination.

It was still daylight; and Edith, who felt in no mood just then for her aunt's company, or anyone else's, went down to the shore, and seating herself on the beach employed herself in listlessly throwing stones into the sea, and watching the eddying circles widening on the water. Shall

we look into her thoughts? They were somewhat disjointed, as is commonly the case in an undisciplined mind; but so far as they can be intelligibly expressed, were pretty much as follows: "The true faith! ay, or any faith,-anything that I could grasp, clutch, cling to, hold on by, be it true or false. Those old Egyptians with their cats and crocodiles, they had faith; Mahometans have faith; Catholics have faith, or say they have. Is that all? Is it real? If I only could believe something, I don't care what! But how can I? There is no authority short of revelation that I can submit to: there is no revelation, I suppose, but the Bible, and that tells me nothing, worse than nothing; every religion on the face of the earth that calls itself Christian appeals to it, claims its authority; there can be but one truth, if truth has any existence at all. Has God cursed the world with a universal darkness? What did that priest say? May God bless you, and teach you the true faith !' What did he ? He spoke as if he meant it, as if he cared about it; bah! it was only a way of speaking. What. could he care? what can it matter to him whether I am Jew, Turk, infidel, or heretic? And besides, how? Does God teach anyone Himself the true faith? if He did, one might believe it : but where? how? He never speaks now as He did to the old prophets. Has He been silent, utterly silent ever since?-since when? well, I suppose since the Day of Pentecost. No, I suppose He spoke to St. John in Patmos; that must have been the last time. And yet these Catholics have some theory about their religion being

mean

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taught by revelation: I wonder what it is! I never felt inclined to ask anyone before; but suppose I do? I do? Suppose I go back to the church and ask Padre Giuseppe on what authority he believes his religion? That is the real point; it is no use to ask stupid questions about the meaning of this, that, and the other; I can't waste time that way. The only common-sense question would be the old one that the Jews asked- By what authority doest thou these things?' What would he say? In the first place, he would think me extremely rude; I don't care about that. In the next place, he would think me a fool; well, his opinion is nothing to me, so I don't care about that. Then I suppose he would refer me to the decrees of all the General Councils, from Jerusalem to Trent; that is rather too much of a good thing; besides, I can read them for myself. Or perhaps he would tell me point blank that the Church of Rome is infallible; and of course, if so, there's an end of the matter: but there is no proof for the claim, and I will believe nothing that I cannot prove. He may prove it to his own satisfaction, but he cannot to mine, so what is the use?" With which highly satisfactory conclusion she sprang up quickly and walked home at a furious pace, as she did always when much excited.

They were to start the next day for Rome, so the evening was chiefly occupied in packing. At last, thoroughly tired, but by no means inclined to sleep, Edith threw herself without undressing upon a couch at the foot of her bed, and drawing a little table close to her, lighted a small lamp,