"You must take the means to the end," said Helbeck steadily. "The Jesuit must yield his will--otherwise the Society need not exist. In Williams's case, so long as he had a fascinating and absorbing pursuit, how could he give himself up to his superiors? Besides"--his grave face stiffened--"in his case there were peculiar difficulties. His art had become a temptation. He wished to protect himself from it." Laura's curiosity was roused; but Helbeck gently put her questions aside, and at last she said in a flash of something like passion that she wondered which the young man had felt most--the trampling on his art, or the forsaking his mother. Helbeck looked at her with sudden animation. "I knew you had heard that story. Dear--he did not forsake his mother! He meant to go--the Fathers had given him leave. But there was a mistake, a miscalculation--and he arrived too late." Laura's beautiful eyes threw lightnings. "A _miscalculation!_" she cried scornfully, her quick breath beating--"That puts it in a nutshell." Helbeck looked at her sadly. "So you are going to be very unkind to him?" "No. I shall watch him." "Look into him rather! Try and make out his spring. I will help you." She protested that there was nothing she less desired. She had been reading some Jesuit biographies from Augustina's room, and they had made her feel that the only thing to be done with such people was to keep them at a distance. Helbeck sighed and gave up the conversation. Then in a moment, compunctions and softenings began to creep over the girl's face. A small hand made its way to his. "There is Wilson in the garden--shall we go and talk to him?" They were in Helbeck's study--where Augustina had left them alone for a little after luncheon. Helbeck put down his pipe with alacrity. Laura ran for her hat and cape, and they went out together.