tion fixed, even on an attractive volume, when the mind is anxious, as was now the case with Sister Edith's; yet, to look at her, one would have concluded she had no thought within her, independent of the occupation in which she was engaged. As a matter of fact, she was not greatly interested in the subject of her study-that very 'Aid to the Doubtful' of which she had spoken so eulogistically to her aunt; it was Father Vane's own book, and so far had a strong claim on her attention, but a translation. from the Latin is not generally a work of absorbing interest-and besides, she had herself no doubts. And yet from habit, from that principle of overcoming nature, or, at the worst, of seeming to do so, which had become her rule in life, she sat with the book before her as resolutely as though both were carved in stone. Nature, however, is difficult to expel-they failed to do it of old, says the poet, with a pitchfork, and the crozier of the bishop has no better luck-and Sister Edith's thoughts wandered though her gaze was fixed. She was

thinking of the truant boy, who had not yet returned home (her ears had never ceased to listen for his step upon the pavement), and her heart was heavy within her on his account. Young as he was, he had from a child been a source to her of deep anxiety. She had yearned to take his mother's place from the moment he had lost her, but that had been denied her (indeed, of late years his father had cut off all connection between them), yet before he went to school she had had opportunities of reading his character, which she had done of course after her own lights. The irreverence of the boy, as she termed his naturalness, had shocked her. There now came into her mind some examples of it. He had attempted on one occasion, at the immature age of five, to carve the joint at luncheon.

put him quietly aside, with

His father had

The master of

the house always carves, my boy.' 'Who carves in heaven, papa?' he had inquired.

It was a child's question, which would have provoked a smile among sensible

folks. It is doing no wrong to either Mr. Francis Talbot or his sister to say that, differing as they did in almost all matters of opinion, they agreed in this, to ignore common sense as much as possible. Even Mr. Talbot, however, perceived that his son's question had better be answered categorically, so he answered, 'The Master.'

'Then he must have a big knife,' returned the child.

These remarks of Richard-for there had been many of the like kind-had given Sister Edith a great deal of pain. She saw in them a nature far too much at ease in Zion,' and subsequent events had confirmed her fears. Master Dick had shown himself something worse than irreverent with reference to sacred things, or what Sister Edith considered as such; and his father had not corrected him-in some matters he had even encouraged him, out of opposition to herself. In all things connected with his son he was lax and lenient, though stern enough in his dealings with the rest of the world.

Richard's stay for a few days at his grandmother's in Gresham Street, on his leaving Eton, had been looked forward to by Sister Edith as an opportunity for regaining her old influence over the lad; but it was doubtful whether he had not

He

already passed beyond it. It is but just to say that she had no idea of converting him to her particular views, but only to win him from evil ways, for that he had fallen into such she was well-nigh convinced. had been flogged at school--a punishment which, in its disgrace, she considered little inferior to being placed in the pillory; and once he had come home to the Tower in what might almost be termed 'custody.' His private tutor, at least, had accompanied him, bearing an intimation from the school authorities that it would be better for all parties if Master Richard Talbot were quietly withdrawn by his friends. This catastrophe had, it is true, been averted, and Eton had once more taken to her bosom her prodigal son; but the sin that had almost procured his expulsion was

no less, in Sister Edith's view, than if it had borne that shameful fruit. Master Richard, being but sixteen years of age, had got drunk at that famous inn 'The Christopher,' at an entertainment given to some boon companions, and on being asked his name by a master of the college, had replied without hesitation, 'Beelzebub.' And now the clock of the neighbouring church was chiming midnight, and this young reprobate had not yet come home. What orgie might he not be engaged in? To what unimaginable depravity might he not have succumbed?

As the last solemn stroke of the hour died away, Sister Edith took up her reading-lamp, and with a glance, as usual, at the symbol of her faith, which had something of appeal this time, as well as reverence in it, she left the room, and softly descended the stairs. All was silent in the house, but from the basement, as she descended the back stairs, there came to her ear a stertorous sound as though the kitchen clock was choking. Mr. Dun