To his right, eastwards, the immense bulk of Penhull closed up all prospect beyond. Northwards were bleak Yorkshire moors. At the foot of Penhull was the little conical mound on which stood all that was left of old Clyderhow Castle. Southwards, the smoke-bedimmed moors round Burnham, and Black Hambledon, showing out grimly against a background of sky that mingled hues of copper and flame and smoke. And by scanning intently the ground just below Wellfield Nab, and the course of its river, he could discern where the village and Monk’s Gate stood. A fair heritage, and it might have been his again, but for—— ‘I am very sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Wellfield,’ said Somerville’s voice at his elbow. ‘Will you not come into the house?’ ‘Thank you. What a prospect this is!’ said Jerome, pausing, ‘and what a phenomenon this place of yours, too; in this district of all others.’ ‘Within call, you are thinking, of those centres of civilisation and cultivation, Blackburn, Burnley, “proud Preston,” and even the monarch of them all, Manchester,’ chimed in Somerville, a tinge of sarcasm in his tones. ‘Yes, it is a phenomenon, I admit. I hope it did not bore you to come to our service.’ ‘Bore me? On the contrary, I have enjoyed it exceedingly.’ ‘Won’t you come into the house? I want to present you to the Superior, and you will remain to supper with us. Come and look at our libraries; it will pass away an hour until we can see the Superior.’ Jerome followed him, and the hour that Somerville had spoken of was passed agreeably enough, in wandering through all the wonderful rooms full of wonderful things which the priest showed him. There was a quiet stillness over everything—a Sabbath calm. The rays of the setting sun made beautiful the great banqueting-hall of the old mansion, which was now the principal refectory for a hundred and sixty students and their accompanying tutors, priests, and professors. They wandered through the libraries, whose cedar-wood bookcases filled the air with a pleasant aromatic smell; and where one saw here and there a figure in a square cap and a long cassock standing silent amongst the wilderness of theology and black-letter in the one room—of patristic lore in the second—of miscellaneous modern thought in the third. But to those who know Brentwood, the repetition of its wonders waxes tedious—to those who know it not, it must be tedious also. Wellfield did not know it, and the charm which, when it was shown to him by so skilful an exponent as Father Somerville, it was sure to cast over him, was a strong one.