Stephen could distinguish nothing-the London fog seemed to have taken up its abode there. Soon a boy in a long black garment came in, carrying a pole with a light at the end, and lighted up the chancel, which was beautiful with painting and flowers. Here and there a solitary figure was kneeling in the body of the church. Presently there entered a long file of little girls with white straw bonnets and blue frocks, followed by black-hooded sisters of mercy, all looking meekly down, with that calm quiet expression that Stephen had remarked in the faces coming out of this temple. The sisters were followed by other ladies in black cloaks and bonnets and neat white caps. The last of these faces struck Stephen as half familiar, but he could not in the least remember where he had seen it before; then, in a moment, it all came back to him, the concert at St James' Hall, for just behind was Edith Melville; and, oh joy! Violet herself; they quietly took their places, and knelt down till the service began, as though quite used to the ways of the place. Gradually the side of the church devoted to female worshippers filled up with a congregation composed half of very fashionably dressed ladies, and half of quasi sisters of mercy, like Henrietta Cheveley. On the other side was a rather scanty sprinkling of the less religious sex, who, however, for the most part, were very demonstrative in their devotions, bowing and crossing themselves in a most conspicuous way. Stephen observed, too, that it was generally the gayest looking ladies who followed this example. The sisters and black-bonnetted ones were very quiet in their devotions.

At last the bell ceased ringing, and the whole con

gregation rose, as the organ began to play softly, and the choir and clergy entered. Then all went down on their knees for the space of one or two minutes, and there was a great hush.

The service was quietly beautiful-the boys' voices heavenly the playing of the organ almost perfect. Altogether, it was the very luxury of worship.

Now Stephen was not enough of a church-goer to carry his Prayer-book always in his pocket, neither did he know all the Psalms well enough to follow the choir verse by verse; so he watched one slight girl, whose head was never once turned, and who was apparently following the service most attentively. And it did Stephen good to feel that once more they were offering their prayers together to the great Father.

When the service was over, Stephen waited quietly in his obscure corner while the congregation dispersed. The three worshippers that he was watching remained on their knees till the church was nearly empty. At last they rose and went out. By this time Stephen's eyes had grown accustomed to the dim religious light, and he could see Violet distinctly as she came towards him down the aisle. Her sweet face looked grave, but, he fancied, happier than at the concert. He was half glad and half disappointed that she did not see him, and he resisted the impulse to follow her.

From that day Stephen constantly found himself in the neighbourhood of St Vincent's about five o'clock in the afternoon, when he would go to a convenient chair beside a sheltering column. Sometimes he was rewarded by the sight he longed for-anyhow, he grew fond of the place, and found the half-hour spent there a great refreshment.

Violet's friend, the black-bonnetted young lady, was nearly always there, generally accompanied by Edith Melville, and sometimes by Violet. Stephen began to feel an unreasonable jealousy of this strange young lady. She was evidently a regular "high-flyer," as Mr Hunt called the St Vincent's people. Stephen often saw her speak to the Sisters of Mercy, and more than once she had gone with them into their house—once Violet was with her. He grew uneasy and suspicious; he was no lover of convents, and the idea of Violet being entrapped into one was horrible to him.

The imaginary rival in the form of a rich suitor now disappeared from his mind, and gave place to a mothersuperior with veil and beads, and sweet insinuating ways; and Stephen feared that she might prove a more dangerous seducer than the other. It was not difficult to picture Violet a Sister of Mercy-in fact, she was one by nature. Stephen tried to draw her with the black dress and coif, and then went off into a daydream, in which Violet figured as a sort of Evangeline, and himself as a patient dying of starvation in some hospital. He thought it would be sweet to die under such circumstances, with such a nurse to smooth his pillow and whisper words of hope into his ear.

Suddenly he started up, dashed down his brush, and rushed off to Mr Hunt.

"I believe I am going mad," he said, as he burst into the studio; "I cannot go on in this way any longer. Something must be done one way or the other."

"Bless the boy! what is the matter now?" said Mr

Hunt. "Come and have a bit of

supper with me,

and

tell me all about it."

Stephen declared he could not eat, but Mr Hunt insisted, and they sat down together.

"There, you are not obliged to eat it, you know," said the little artist, as he set a good plateful of cold meat and salad before Stephen; "but I cannot live on love or air-so here goes;" and he attacked his own portion with vigour. Stephen soon followed his friend's example, and gradually the food disappeared, and his story was told.

In telling it it sounded a little absurd, and Stephen laughed at himself.

"Well, it appears to amount to this," said Mr Hunt. "You have occasionally seen your angel, or Eve, or whatever she may be, in a fashionable ritualistic church, with a friend in a black bonnet, and you very naturally conclude that Rome, or St Albans, or some secret enemy, has laid a snare, and your beloved one is to be entrapped and locked up in a convent. It's all plain enough—nothing is more likely. I would take proceedings to prevent such a catastrophe immediately, if I were you. No, no, my boy," he went on kindly, "joking apart, this kind of thing must not go on. You must fight against it like a man. Don't spend your time running about after a pretty face, though to you it may be the dearest face in the world; it's wasting yourself and your time, and is unworthy of you. Do your best, and trust in Providence, and leave the result."

"You are right, I know," said Stephen; "perhaps I had better leave London-but where shall I go?-at any rate I will not enter that St Vincent's again."

"Choose some other church to perform your devotions in-they do you no harm," said Mr Hunt, “but perhaps it would be better to leave London if you could. Suppose you go and look up the master at Bareton-let us hope he is still in want of assistance. At any rate he knows all about you, and might put you in the way of something."

With a little more persuasion Stephen decided to go and try his luck. A few weeks before nothing would have induced him to go near Chiltern, but now he knew there was no chance of running against Mrs Melville and her daughters, for they were in London; and the good Rector was abroad, for he had suddenly broken down in the midst of his work, and had been ordered a year's absolute rest. Stephen only knew that he was not in England.