"What?" cried Maria Dolores, surprised, rebukeful. "That a man is to
become a holy priest?"

"Oh, no," said John. "That fact alone, detached from special
circumstances, might be a subject for rejoicing. But the fact that this
particular man, _in_ his special circumstances, is to become a
priest--well, I simply have no words to express my feeling." He threw
out his arms, in a gesture of despair. "I'm simply sick with rage and
pity. I could gnash my teeth and rend my garments."

"Mercy!" cried Maria Dolores, stirring. "What are the special
circumstances?"

"Oh, it's a grisly history," said John. "It's a tale of the wanton,
ruthless, needless, purposeless sacrifice of two lives. It's his old
black icy Puritan blood. Winthorpe--that's his name--had for years been
a freethinker, far too intellectual and enlightened, and that sort of
thing, you know, to believe any such old wives' tale as the Christian
Religion. He and I used to have arguments, tremendous ones, in which, of
course, neither in the least shook the other. Darwin and Spencer, with a
dash of his native Emerson, were religion enough for him. Then this
morning he arrived here, and said, 'Congratulate me. A month ago I was
received into the Church.'"

Maria Dolores looked up, animated, her dark eyes sparkling.

"How splendid!" she said.

"Yes," agreed John, "so I thought. 'Congratulate me,' he said. I should
think I did congratulate him,--with all my heart and soul. But then,