Miss Blake turned at the address, and recognized Mr. Smith--his green spectacles on and his arm in a sling as usual. She had seen him once or twice since that first meeting, but he had only bowed in passing. "May I be permitted to enter?" he asked, waving his hand at the church door. "Oh, certainly," she replied. "Indeed I hope you will become one of St. Jerome's constant worshippers." So he went in with the crowd of ladies. It certainly looked a sweet little place--as Jane St. Henry remarked aloud. Candles, flowers, crosses, scrolls--for Miss Blake knew exactly what would please Mr. Cattacomb. The common whitewashed walls were nearly hidden: mottoes, a painting or two, and prints lay thickly on them, all of course of a sacred character. The plain, straw-seated chairs stood pretty thickly. The other arrangements were as good as funds, time, and space had allowed. Leading off on one side at the upper end, was a small vestry; with a sort of corner box in it that was to serve as a confessional. This vestry--which used to be the place where The school children put their hats and bonnets--had an objectionable, modern window in it; before which was hung a blind of printed calico, securing the vestry's privacy from sun and gazers. Mr. Smith might have been a travelled man, but in all his travels he had seen no place of worship like unto this. He was saying so to himself as he turned and gazed about through his green glasses. He took them off and gazed again. "Is it not charming, sir?" asked Jane St. Henry. "It is rather small," was the response. "Oh, that's the worst," said the young lady. "One cannot have everything at the beginning: there must always be some drawbacks. I know a church in London, not very much larger than this, where there are three sweet little private sanctuaries: here we have only one." "Sanctuaries?" repeated the agent, evidently not understanding. "Confessionals. For confession, you know. We have only one here, and that is obliged to be in the vestry." "Oh, then the place _is_ Roman Catholic!" said Mr. Smith, quietly. "I thought so." He had no intention to offend: it was simply what he inferred: but Miss St. Henry gave a little shriek and put her two hands to her ears. Martha Sumnor, a free, showy girl, stepped up. "For goodness' sake don't call it that," she said. "Papa would go on at us, for coming here, worse than he does." Mr. Smith bowed and begged pardon. He could not help thinking this was a daughter of the vicar of the old church, but was not sure: and he wondered much. Even so. The two daughters of Mr. Sumnor had joined St. Jerome's. They and their mother had long set the vicar at defiance.