door, and, without speaking, showed in a very gentlemanly and
prepossessing man, who had something remarkable about his dress,
betraying his profession to be that of the Roman Catholic priesthood.
He glanced at my uncle first, then at me. It was to me he bowed.

"I did not give my name," said he, "because you would hardly have
recognised it; unless, sir, when, in the north, you heard of Father
Bernard, the chaplain at Stoney Hurst?"

I remembered afterwards that I had heard of him, but at the time I
had utterly forgotten it; so I professed myself a complete stranger
to him; while my ever-hospitable uncle, although hating a papist as
much as it was in his nature to hate anything, placed a chair for the
visitor, and bade Anthony bring glasses, and a fresh jug of claret.

Father Bernard received this courtesy with the graceful ease and
pleasant acknowledgement which belongs to a man of the world. Then
he turned to scan me with his keen glance. After some alight
conversation, entered into on his part, I am certain, with an
intention of discovering on what terms of confidence I stood with my
uncle, he paused, and said gravely -

"I am sent here with a message to you, sir, from a woman to whom you
have shown kindness, and who is one of my penitents, in Antwerp--one
Bridget Fitzgerald."

"Bridget Fitzgerald!" exclaimed I. "In Antwerp? Tell me, sir, all
that you can about her."

"There is much to be said," he replied. "But may I inquire if this