"You will supply yourself with a surname, which even Mr. Irvine must not know not to be your real name. Select one which shall not be so uncommon as to attract notice, nor so common that letters would be likely to miscarry. You can consider this at your leisure, and let us know to-morrow of what name you have thought, since we shall not require you to set out before to-morrow evening." "What say you to 'Stevens?'" suggested Cuthbert in a moment. A grave consultation among the elder Jesuits followed, ending with the approval of Cuthbert's suggestion. "You are very young, my Brother, to be trusted with so grave and important a matter as His Majesty's errands are," warned the elder priest in conclusion. "We have relied upon your ingenuity and devotion. Let us not have cause to regret choosing you." "You will not do that, Father," answered Cuthbert, not so much proudly as coolly and confidently. And making his adieux to the conclave, Mr. Cuthbert Stevens--for so we must henceforth call him--withdrew from the room. We shall see him again shortly; but for the present we must return (rather more rapidly than he could travel) to Ashcliffe Hall. "Celia!" said Lucy to her sister, a few hours later, as the latter tucked her up in bed, "do you think--is it very--did you hear what Charley said about Sunday?" "Yes, dear. Charley was in a passion, and did not mean what he said, I hope." "But do you think that it is--very wicked--to get so tired on Sunday?" asked Lucy, slowly, as if she were half afraid of bringing her thoughts to light. "For I do get dreadfully tired, Celia. Sermons, endless sermons all day long! for, as if the sermon in church were not enough, Father must needs read another at home on Sunday nights! Celia, do you think it is very wrong to get tired of sermons?" "I suppose," said Celia, thoughtfully, "that must depend on the sort of sermon." "I never seem to get a chance of hearing any sort but one," said Lucy; "and I can't understand them." "Well, Lucy, it is not pleasant to be obliged to sit still and listen to what you do not understand," Celia admitted. "Oh, I get so tired!" said Lucy, flinging herself on another part of the bed, as if the very thought of the coming Sunday fatigued her. "Don't take the light away just yet, Celia." "No, dear; I have my clean ruffles to sew on for to-morrow," answered Celia, sitting down to her work. "Celia, do you understand Dr. Braithwaite's sermons?" "Not always. Remember what a learned man he is, Lucy; we must not expect very wise men to talk like you and me." "I wish he did not know quite so much, then," said Lucy. "I could understand him if he would talk like you." "Aught I can do for you, Mrs. Celia, my dear?" asked old Cicely, looking in. "Prithee give me those ruffles. You have been sewing all day." "Cicely," asked Lucy, returning to the charge, "do you understand Dr. Braithwaite's sermons?" "No, my dear, scarce a word," said Cicely.