way. I don't see any reason," he went on, "for supposing that God will lead me to the Church of Rome, but, wherever He leads me, I must surely follow. Ambrose, I must surely, surely, follow!"

"Then, may the Almighty take compassion on us," I cried, bitterly, "for so far as I can see, I see nothing but troubles and tempests before us. I grieve for you, Eustace," I continued, "I grieve for you with all my heart and soul, and I grieve all the more because I am afraid that the troubles which you seem so determined to call down upon us- I say us, for whatever affects you must equally affect me-will have been of your own creation. I can only pray God to take compassion on you, and, most of all, to keep you clear of that which I so fearfully dread, that false faith in whose meshes I pray that your feet may not become entangled beyond all possibility of liberation. I can only pray that such a blight as this may never fall upon your young life, my friend, my friend, my poor friend."

I struggled with myself as best I could, for I was always ashamed to make any display of feeling, even before him. Spite of all my efforts, two or three great sobs rose in my throat, but I smothered them as best I was able, and turned to go away. I think I was half-way downstairs on my way out when I heard him calling after me, "Ambrose, Ambrose." I stopped suddenly, and waited until he came up with me. I saw at a glance that he was deadly pale, but I had only time to take one look at him before he came up to me, and laid his hands upon my shoulders, as he had a habit of doing when very much in earnest. I could scarcely catch the words he strove to speak to me, they were so broken with his sobs, but I strained my ears to listen. "Oh, Ambrose, if you

knew, if you only knew the load that is upon my heart, you would pity me, indeed, indeed, you would. But, no matter. Only, Ambrose," he continued, as he clung to me in his earnestness, "you will never forget the promise which you made to me this morning! Ambrose, you will never forget that!"

I could not say much to him. Many words would have been out of place. I only drew him for an instant to my breast, ere I answered in words scarcely less broken than his own: "Eustace, may God be faithful to me as I am faithful to that promise. The day will never come-my Maker, who knows my heart, sees that the day will never come-when you will have to say of me that I have forgotten my promise to you. All the world besides may cast you off, I never will. All the world besides may be unfaithful to you, but I never will. I will be faithful to you to the very end."

What was in my heart I promised him, and what I promised him I faithfully fulfilled. Through many years, not unchequered with heavy trials; through good report and through evil report; in weal and in woe; let Eustace Percy raise his voice and bear me witness whether I have kept my promise. As I write these lines his hand is on my shoulder, and it touches me as fondly and as truly as it ever did in days of yore. His breath is warm upon my cheek, as he bends down to read the lines which my pen is tracing. His voice is ringing in my ears, and it is none the less sweet to me because it falters and breaks down; none the less sweet to me because it mingles with those of his wife and his innocent children; none the less sweet to me, oh, surely! none the less sweet, because the burden of their cry is still the same, "Faithful evermore, faithful evermore."

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Book Second.

IN THE DEPTHS.

CHAPTER VIII.

DE PROFUNDIS.

NCE that the ice was fairly broken between us, and now that my interest in the subject

was fully awakened, Eustace and I had many such conversations as the one related in the last chapter Although they were full of deep and absorbing interest to us, still, as I have no right to suppose that they would be equally so to my readers, and as this work most certainly does not propose to itself a controversial or doctrinal object, I shall not repeat them in this place. I will confine myself to stating, in as few words as possible, all that I must necessarily add on this subject.

Soon after the conversation recorded in the last chapter, went abroad, and Eustace was, consequently, left almost entirely to his own guidance in regard to those matters which, I can truly say, now absorbed every thought and energy of his heart and mind. From this period, too, I saw what I considered a very decided advance on his part towards Rome. I think he hardly realized the full bearing of his own views until, by my questions, I brought them

out and developed them. I am equally sure that he had never thought of giving names to these views, or of putting them into strict shape and form; but when I urged him till he could not escape admitting their full bearing and significance, he never shrunk from them, because these views were clearly proved to be Roman views, and their real names Roman names; and, in this way, I brought home to him, and made him see that he was upholding and professing many doctrines and usages which were plainly Catholic, or, as I put it, Roman; and which, practically, were neither recognised nor employed by the Church of England, no matter how earnestly men, who were straining every point rather than leave the Church of their baptism, endeavoured to show that, although fallen into disuse, they were, nevertheless, admitted by that Church, in some shape or other. Then I noticed the introduction of a crucifix, some Catholic prints, and other articles of a like nature into his room. When I attacked him about these he was always ready with his defence, and what gave me more annoyance than all the rest was, that he never defended these things on the score of their being Catholic or otherwise. He passed over that question altogether, and defended them either on the score of their antiquity, or of their reasonableness in themselves. If I rejoined that he must, however confess that these things were not employed in the Church of England, he would only answer that he was sorry for it; and that, inasmuch as he was quite certain that they had both been employed and venerated in the early Church, he was afraid that it was an additional argument to show how very far she had fallen away from many very wholesome practices and devotions. Nay, several times when I

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asked him whether, if the Church of England should altogether, either practically or theoretically, disown and condemn the use of these things, whilst, on the other hand, the Church of Rome nourished and encouraged their employment, he would consider this as a positive argument in favour of the Church of Rome, he answered me without hesitation, "Certainly. That Church which could best prove its identity, as well in practice as in belief, with the early Church, must, in his opinion, have the strongest claim to be considered the true Church of Christ." gether, I could not but consider him in a very bad way, and, yet, what I was to do I could not possibly see. If I attempted to argue with him he closed my mouth in a few moments. He was so thoroughly well up in his subject that I was only like a dumb dog, non valens latrare, before him. If I asked him to read the most rabid anti-Popery or Low Church writings, he always willingly complied; but he read them side by side with the works of the Fathers or the productions of Catholic divines, and thus, as he said, took the poison out of them, or, as I put it, threw dust into his own eyes. And, yet, when I reproached him for acting thus, he was ever ready with his answer. "You know, Ambrose," he would say, with his gentle smile, "you know I have no object but to discover the truth; surely I must read both sides of the question ;" and what could I respond to this? If I brought before him, as I sometimes did, in the strongest language at my command, the fearful rage of his father, and the utter ruin which must await him in a worldly point of view if he became a Catholic, he would shiver and turn pale, but had ever the same answer ready for me. "I am not sure that I shall ever become a Catholic, but I am quite