Monsignor Maxwell announced next day at dinner that he had already

arranged for the evening's entertainment. A priest, whose acquaintance he

had made on the Palatine, was leaving for England the next morning; and

it was our only chance therefore of hearing his story. That he had a

story had come to the Canon's knowledge in the course of a conversation

on the previous afternoon.

'He told me the outline of it,' he said, 'I think it very remarkable. But

I had a great deal of difficulty in persuading him to repeat it to the

company this evening. But he promised at last. I trust, gentlemen, you do

not think I have presumed in begging him to do so.'

Father Macclesfield arrived at supper.

He was a little unimposing dry man, with a hooked nose, and grev hair. He

was rather silent at supper; but there was no trace of shyness in his

manner as he took his seat upstairs, and without glancing round once,

began in an even and dispassionate voice:

'I once knew a Catholic girl that married an old Protestant three times

her own age. I entreated her not to do so; but it was useless. And when

the disillusionment came she used to write to me piteous letters, telling

me that her husband had in reality no religion at all. He was a convinced

infidel; and scouted even the idea of the soul's immortality.

'After two years of married life the old man died. He was about sixty

years old; but very hale and hearty till the end.

'Well, when he took to his bed, the wife sent for me; and I had

half-a-dozen interviews with him; but it was useless. He told me plainly

that lye wanted to believe--in fact he said that the thought of

annihilation was intolerable to him. If he had had a child he would not

have hated death so much; if his flesh and blood in any manner survived

him, he could have fancied that he had a sort of vicarious life left; but

as it was there was no kith or kin of his alive; and he could not bear

that.'