"You have said that you felt my interest in you. Do not give me the bitterness of feeling that I am a careless shepherd who has lost a lamb to the wolves. If you have gone astray it must be in part my fault; it must be my negligence. Oh, my son, don't force me to stand guilty before God to answer for your lost soul." It seemed to Maurice that he was being swept away by the simple power of the emotion of Frontford. He felt the tears in his eyes, and almost without his volition his hand responded to the pressure of the hand that clasped it. He made a strong effort to call back his will. "Father," he responded, "we must each stand or fall alone. It is not your fault that I can't see things as you do, or that I can't any longer remain here. I am changed. If I stayed, it would be against my convictions." "Ah," was the eager reply, "but you could submit your convictions to the church." Maurice drew back. "I am a man, to think for myself. I must be honest with my reason. The church cannot take for me the place of honesty and conviction." The Father Superior dropped the hand he held. "Then you insist on putting your own will and your own wisdom above that of the church?" "I must do the thing that seems to me right." The priest's face hardened. It was as if over the surface of a pool a film of ice formed. He sank back in his chair, and when he spoke again it was in a voice so hard and cold that the young man started. "When do you leave?" the Father Superior asked. "I meant to wait until after nones so as to say good-by to Philip." "I prefer that you should go at once." "You mean that you prefer that I should not see him?" Maurice demanded quickly. "I merely said that I prefer that you should go at once," was the cold reply. Maurice rose briskly. His impulse was to retort sharply, but he held himself in check. "Very well," he answered. "I shall take it as a favor if you will let Philip know that I did not willingly leave him without a word. It would hurt him to think that." "The wounds of earth," the Father Superior said gravely, "are the joys of heaven." Maurice stood an instant with a keen desire to reply, to break down this icy statue of religion; then he drew back. "I will not trouble you longer," he said. "Good-by." "Good-by, Mr. Wynne," the other responded with the manner of one addressing a stranger. Maurice went to his chamber thoroughly aroused and excited. The restraint which he had put on himself during the talk with Father Frontford brought now its reaction. He rehearsed in his mind the telling and caustic things which he might have said, then laughed at himself for his unnecessary fervor. He packed his belongings, and, leaving them to be called for, set out for the house of his cousin. To go out from the Clergy House seemed to him like the ending of a life.