boys and labourers on the road to Clevedale for service, nor did he on the other hand succeed in getting any of them to put their feet inside Sleepytown Church. He still bellowed at his people for not giving more at the collections, and even with more vehemence than before did he preach against Dissenters and Romanists.

CHAPTER IX.

TURNED OUT OF HIS SECOND CURACY.

ARTHUR MACDONALD's cousin, Reginald Birkbeck, was a clever young barrister of private means, who lived in London and made far more by writing for the Press than by professional work. To him went Arthur, feeling that a change of scene and new life would be necessary after the most unfortunate termination of his first curacy.

We make the acquaintance of Birkbeck at the breakfast table in South Audley Street.

"Well, Arthur, I hope I have not kept you waiting; why did you not begin breakfast without me? I was rather tired after last night."

"Oh, no," replied Arthur, "I'm not at all hungry, thanks,-who was there?"

"Well, let me see-old Seal, Lord Know-all, a Father Clary and Mr. Taylor, several more whose names I forget. By-the-bye, the Priest tells me your sister, Mrs. Lumley, is coming to town next weekyou've not seen much of her lately, have you?"

"No," replied Arthur; "you see as a clergyman it is rather awkward."

"As a fiddlesticks," rejoined his cousin. "You Protestant parsons are a vast deal too bigoted to suit me. Now, that's what I like with priests, they know the world better. Father Clary last night was most agreeable-never mentioned the word religion, but talked no end about the spectroscope."

"I say, Reginald, what do you mean by 'you Protestant parsons?'-why you are a Protestant yourself."

"Not I; I detest the whole canting brood—I'm a Christian unattached, that's what I am, and I told Clary so."

"And what did he say?" replied Arthur.

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Why, that I was logical, for a man ought to be a Catholic or a Deist or nothing."

"That is to say," answered Arthur, "that rather than worship Christ as a Protestant he would prefer his denying Him; and that man is a Christian priest !"

Birkbeck thought for a minute and then said quietly, "I did not look at it in that way, I take it that he meant a man who believes in a Revelation must believe in a Church to bear witness to that Revelation."

"But," said Arthur, "I believe that, yet I do not become a Roman Catholic."

"No," said Birkbeck, "but you will before long. I should if I were you."

After breakfast Birkbeck and his cousin smoked cigars and read the papers, an occupation at which we will for a short time leave them, while we enter another house of a very different sort.

In a shabby room at the top of a three-storied house in a small street off Regent Street sat a young man with a care-worn face with his elbows on a table, on which were strewed several books, while opposite him sat a man of about fifty years of age, whose dress betokened the Priest, whose face showed that sympathy had not been ousted by ability, as is sometimes the

case.

"Father Clary, what am I to do? If I become a Catholic my father will turn me out of doors, and I have not got a penny in the world of my own."

"My child, do your duty first and leave the rest to God-better to starve in this world than to be condemned in that which is to come."

"But you don't mean that none but Catholics can be saved, Father?"

"My boy, have you so little remembered what I have tried to impress on you; a man is judged according as he acts up to his light. If a man is a sincere Protestant, well and good; but to sin against light, to stifle conscience, this is a sin of deadly character, and separates the soul from God.”

"To give up father and mother and home and friends-oh, 'tis hard, 'tis cruelly hard!" A sob burst

from him, while the Priest rose from the table, and, putting his hand on his shoulder, said softly, "He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me."

"I'll come, forgive my weakness, Father Clary."

Yet another scene must pass before us ere we return to Arthur and Reginald Birkbeck.

A bright fire burnt on the hearth in the cheerful dining-room of Beaufort Cottage. The ladies of the house had retired to the drawing-room after dessert, while Major Lamort and his son Dick, whose acquaintance we made at Ramsgate, sipped their claret.

"I tell you, Dick, I have cut him out of my will, and not one penny shall he ever receive from me. The idea of one of our family turning Papist! it is a perfect disgrace!"

"But what will he live on; he can't starve ?"

"Can't he; all the better for him. I shan't help him. Would you believe it, a d-d Priest has written to me saying 'by God's grace' George has become a Catholic, and hoping that as he acted conscientiously I would not be angry with him. The fellow's impudence! I'd like to horsewhip him."

The Major drank another glass of wine, passed the decanter to his son, and said, "I say, Dick, no more of this subject; to come to yourself. McSweeny tells me you have over-drawn your account; what is the meaning of this?"