he had gone too far for that. All he could do now was to drift. In this uncomfortable frame of mind he ascended the slope which led to the gates of the drive through the park at Brentwood. Right before him stretched a perfectly straight road, some quarter of a mile in length, between two green meadows, each of which meadows was bordered by a belt of dark firs. Many persons were, like himself, wending towards the mass of grey buildings, and the great stone gate-posts, and the two huge square fish-ponds, which lay at the end of this long road. A bell, too, was tolling somewhere amongst the mass of buildings—some old, some new, some not yet finished, which form the outward portion of the great Jesuit College of Brentwood. Arrived at the entrance, between the two fish-ponds, he inquired his way to the church, and was directed where to go. Entering by a side-door, by some mistake, he found himself in that portion of the church reserved for the students of the college. Pausing, and looking round, he was accosted by a tall, grave-looking ‘philosopher’—a Spaniard, evidently—and, to judge from outward appearances, no small personage by birth and breeding. Accepting his offer of a place, Jerome found himself between the Spanish youth and another foreigner in one of the front benches facing the high altar. There was a dreamy calm over everything until the service began. The congregation came slowly dropping in, chiefly rustics, countrymen, women, and children, and here and there some group or isolated figure of unquestionably higher rank and station.