Indeed, it is a place which cannot fail to impress all who see it with a sense of wonder and admiration—it is a little town in itself—a centre of learned leisure, of Jesuit subtilty, of refined cultivation, of courtly hospitality towards those admitted within its precincts, and all this planted upon the slope of a bleak Lancashire ridge of hill, facing another bare hill which divides it from one of the most radical of radical boroughs. It was, as Wellfield had said, a remarkable phenomenon. He was presented to the Very Reverend Father Superior. He was courteously and graciously entertained at the simple but abundant Sunday evening supper, and he heard and shared in conversation in which he felt thoroughly at home—conversation adapted with skill and tact to his own tastes and habits. He forgot his dilemma, until, when it was almost ten o’clock, he rose to take his departure. ‘I will accompany you for a part of the way,’ said Somerville, and after wishing his hosts good-night, Jerome set out with the companion whose influence he felt already to be strong, but which was in fact far stronger than he knew, or would have liked to know—strong because it was the influence of a calm, concentrated, yet flexible nature upon one which, though variable was not flexible; though passionate, was not strong. Still broad moonlight, they had no difficulty in making their way through the scented lanes and between the tangled hedgerows. They walked onwards, discoursing of different things, until they had left Brentwood more than a mile behind, and found themselves at the top of a hill, from which, looking down, they could see all the village of Wellfield; its old church; the winding river, and the Abbey walls and gates slumbering in the moonlight. They paused, and looked down upon it. ‘It is very beautiful,’ observed the priest at last. ‘God knows it is,’ responded Wellfield. Another pause, when Somerville laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder, and said, in a slow, reflective, earnest voice: ‘I wish to heaven that you were master there!’ Wellfield laughed a short, mirthless laugh. He knew what was meant, and the impulse to speak freely was strong—so strong that he followed it. ‘That will never be. You have some power of divination, I am certain. Since your conversation with me yesterday morning, I have been convinced that what you said is true. I _might_ be master there if I—chose.’ ‘Then why not?’ ‘Because to do it, I must sell myself body and soul. It would be hell upon earth for her—and for me too.’ ‘But she is not a woman with whom it would be hell-upon-earth to live,’ began Somerville, as if surprised. ‘Heavens! no. She is all that a girl ought to be, I think, and good as only such girls can be. It is not that.’ ‘Surely you don’t stick at the fact that you are not desperately in love with her? In your position that would be a folly of which I cannot believe you capable.’ ‘No; such an idea never entered my mind.’