The fresh, sharp, autumn air; the quick movement, and the change of scene, roused me a little from the heavy stupor of grief and rage—I know not what else to call it—which had oppressed me, and I began to look about me. Father Austin seemed to note the change, and began gently to point out different objects of interest. He showed me the house where he himself was born and brought up—a comfortable old red brick hall, looking like the very home of peace and plenty in its ancient elm and nut trees, and began to tell me little tales of his boyhood, of his mother and sisters and his pet rabbits. At first I was conscious of nothing but a wish to be let alone, but almost insensibly I began to listen, to be interested, and asked little questions. The sharp, heavy distress was at my heart still, but as one suffering from the pain of a wound is yet willing to be a little diverted from his misery, albeit the pain is not lessened thereby, so I was not sorry to listen to the kind father's tale. Presently we passed a building shut in by high walls, like a convent, and as the road wound close by the gate, we could hear within sounds of somewhat unbridled mirth and laughter. "What house is that?" asked the steward, who rode close by us. "It was the house of Our Lord once," said the father, dryly. "Now it belongs to Master Cromwell." The man bit his lip as if he had received some sort of check, and fell back a little. The house was, in fact, one of the many small convents which had fallen during the past few years. We stopped at a way-side inn for some refreshment, and one of the men brought me a glass of small ale, but I could not take it, and begged for a drink of pure water instead. My head ached, and I felt parched with thirst. The priest asked the buxom hostess who brought me the water, if there were any news. "Nothing your reverence, save that the foxes have caught and carried off two or three lambs, but 'tis thought their den will be broken up before long." I saw two or three of the men who were standing about wink at each other as if there were some jest concealed under the woman's words. Father Austin answered her gently: "There are many sorts of foxes, and other beasts also, which spoil the flocks, and the worst of all, are wolves which come in sheep's clothing: remember that, my daughter." Young and distraught as I was, I could not but notice the difference between the treatment of the priest here, and that which he would have received in our neighborhood at Peckham Hall. There, whenever the abbot or Father Barnaby rode abroad, all bowed before them, as if they had been the pope himself, and even our own old fat, sleepy Sir John, was greeted with bared heads; but here, such as we met contented themselves with a careless lifting of hat or cap for a moment, and many gave Father Austin no greeting at all. Others on the contrary were very forward in craving his blessing, even kissing the hem of his robe or the furniture of his mule.