And then he remembered that his way home lay through the city in which the new convert's parish was--that the coach stopped there to change horses; and again the temptation leapt up again, stronger than ever, under the garb of an imperative call of duty. He made no determination for or against it. He was too weak in body and mind to resist; and in a half sleep, broken with an aching, terrified sense of something wanting which he could not find, he was swept down the line, got on the coach, and mechanically, almost without knowing it, found himself set down at the city of A--, and the coach rattling away down the street. He sprang from his stupor, and called madly after it--ran a few steps-- 'You might as well try to catch the clouds, sir,' said the ostler. 'Gemmen should make up their minds afore they gets down.' Alas! so thought the vicar. But it was too late; and, with a heavy heart, he asked the way to the late curate's house. Thither he went. Mr. Luke Smith was just at dinner, but the vicar was, nevertheless, shown into the bachelor's little dining-room. But what was his disgust and disappointment at finding his late pupil tete-a-tete over a comfortable fish-dinner, opposite a burly, vulgar, cunning-eyed man, with a narrow rim of muslin turned down over his stiff cravat, of whose profession there could be no doubt. 'My dearest sir,' said the new convert, springing up with an air of extreme empressement, 'what an unexpected pleasure! Allow me to introduce you to my excellent friend, Padre Bugiardo!' The padre rose, bowed obsequiously, 'was overwhelmed with delight at being at last introduced to one of whom he had heard so much,' sat down again, and poured himself out a bumper of sherry; while the vicar commenced making the best of a bad matter by joining in the now necessary business of eating. He had not a word to say for himself. Poor Luke was particularly jovial and flippant, and startlingly unlike his former self. The padre went on staring out of the window, and talking in a loud forced tone about the astonishing miracles of the 'Ecstatica' and 'Addolorata;' and the poor vicar, finding the purpose for which he had sacrificed his own word of honour utterly frustrated by the priest's presence, sat silent and crestfallen the whole evening. The priest had no intention of stirring. The late father-confessor tried to outstay his new rival, but in vain; the padre deliberately announced his intention of taking a bed, and the vicar, with a heavy heart, rose to go to his inn. As he went out at the door, he caught an opportunity of saying one word to the convert. 'My poor Luke! and are you happy? Tell me honestly, in God's sight tell me!' 'Happier than ever I was in my life! No more self-torture, physical or mental, now. These good priests thoroughly understand poor human nature, I can assure you.'