But though he returned to his studies, he could not fix his attention on them as heretofore, for the face of Rhoda Berry would come between him and the written page. He feared he had spoken unkindly and roughly to her, and, if so, he was a brute. The poor girl had never harmed him; the wrong had been all on the other side. He had never been really attached to her, but he had been fond of her during the days of their courtship, and he could remember that he had regretted the fact of her birth precluding the idea of his asking her to be his wife. He could remember also that he thought her a very intelligent and well-read girl, and a most interesting companion, more interesting, perhaps, and sensible than his sweet Jenny, who needed nothing but her own beauty to make all men worship her. Rhoda was a pretty girl too, not quite in his style, perhaps, for how could he admire blue eyes and yellow hair, with Jenny’s big hazel orbs and chestnut locks forever before his mental vision? Still--whatever Rhoda was like, he had deeply wronged her, and she had never even reproached him for his baseness--never hinted that he had behaved badly to her, or that he ought to be ashamed of himself for deserting her and her child, in order to marry another woman. It was awfully good of her. Almost angelic, and he could weep tears of blood when he thought of it. He said one or two long prayers on her behalf, and then returned to his books, and tried to banish her from his mind. But it was in vain! Strive as hard as Frederick would to fix his thoughts on Saint Augustine, or Saint Chrysostom, or any other of the holy fathers of the Church, their revered memories had to give way to a pair of tearful blue eyes and a willowy figure bearing a little image of himself in its arms. He felt that he could settle to nothing until he had made peace with his conscience by making such amends as lay in his power for the grievous wrong he had done poor Rhoda Berry. ‘Hang it all!’ he said to himself, after a most unclerical fashion, ‘I must make some provision for that child, whether Rhoda likes it or not. I can’t make up my mind to give thousands to a Church, who is as rich as old Crœsus, whilst I leave my own flesh and blood unprovided for. But she never even told me the little beggar’s name, and, if I write to her for it, she will refuse again to take the money. Well! I can settle it on her instead. I must see Mr Sinclair on the subject at once!’ This resolution, on his part, resulted in his sending a request to his solicitor to call on him as soon as convenient, when he received him in his private room. ‘I have asked to see you, Mr Sinclair,’ he commenced, ‘in order to place a confidence in you. You are aware, I believe, that, in a very short time, I am to be admitted to Holy Orders, and that, when that happens, my money, of which you have hitherto had the charge, will be confiscated to the Church.’ ‘I have heard so, Mr Walcheren, and, frankly, I was very sorry to hear it.’