He was on his way to that hospitable hall, where all was mirth and harmony within at the prospect of the marriage which was to take place on the morrow. The banks of the river were as green as in former days, the swallows were as lively, boys were bathing, ships were sailing, boats were moving, birds were singing, nature smiling; the difference was in Wolsey, and not in the things around him. The monastery of St. Peter's frowned upon him as he crossed the ford of Stoke, monks were chanting matins, country folk bringing in their produce from the farm-yard, and smiling health animating some lively lass who was paying her first visit to the great provincial town of Suffolk. Stern were Wolsey's features, as deep thought sat upon his brow. He saw not the bows which foot passengers gave him. His eye seemed fixed upon some mental object. He was absorbed in his own reflections, thinking of those who were his friends, and of the manner in which he should receive their welcome. De Freston had been his patron in days past; but De Freston could be of no service to him now. He was now a priest, and a priest must not feel as other men do. He must be more dignified, more reserved, more distant, more exalted. He was a priest of Rome; he must forget that he was ever a poor scholar at Ipswich, fostered and cherished by many friends, and sent to Oxford by their kindness and patronage. He was a priest of Rome! Rome must be now his patron; Rome must claim every secret impulse of his heart, and all his kindred must be forgotten. Something of offence arose out of De Freston's preference in bestowing the hand of his daughter upon Latimer. Something of offence suggested itself in Ellen's preference of his friend, and towards Latimer a sort of aversion sprang up on account of his successful rivalry. But human nature must be subdued. The decree of Rome forbade any such ideas to be entertained; not on account of any exigency of the times, but because the priests could not, without this decided law of privation, be trained in the way of implicit obedience. If Wolsey really loved Ellen, he would have been glad to hear of her happiness, even though she had preferred his friend Latimer. In self-sacrifices for the promotion of another's happiness, there is ever a noble and graceful love, which carries with it unspeakable admiration. But this passion of Wolsey's had given way to a misanthropic philosophy, which ever after induced him to look with disregard upon the ties of mutual affection.