almost without our knowing it, to Him for whose love and service they were alone created; and which, whilst it taught us what a holy and a blessed thing it is to rest in God, and how pleasant and how secure are the ways of those who walk along the paths of his holy Church, taught us also to love one another more dearly and more truly than we had ever done before, because it taught us how to love one another in God and for God.

CHAPTER VI.

THE MOVING OF THE WATERS.

HE next few pages of this narrative must, I am afraid, be somewhat controversial and

dogmatic; but, courteous reader, please don't "skip" them. I know well what a mistake it is to introduce heavy controversy into the pages of a work like this, because for one who will peruse it, ninety-nine out of every hundred readers will as surely "skip" it, while my publisher charges me quite as much for the printing of this heavy matter as he does for those portions which contain, what I may consider to be, the most exciting or romantic parts of my story. But, unwilling as I am to run the risk of boring you, the thread of the narrative which I have taken in hand imperatively requires that I enter, in this place, at some little length, into matters which are of their nature rather heavy for general readers. But, if I have not succeeded by this time in enlisting your interest in and sympathy for my narrative, to such an extent as to stimulate you to make a bold plunge at the few pages which are now to come, the whole thing must be a sad failure; and I have little hope that you will read even another line of a story at which I have laboured with a great deal of earnestness and more good will, that I might make it interesting to you; that by its

means and through its simple agency I might, insensibly to yourself, draw you to the love of God and the practice of Christian virtue; motives which, I trust, have guided and influenced me in taking up my pen to write this tale, as I am quite sure they form the motives and the purpose of the series of which this work is but one. If some writers propose to themselves no higher purpose or aim than to amuse their readers, such a purpose can never be the end of the series of which this work is a unit; but, at the same time, I believe that virtue may be inculcated, and that the heart may sometimes be drawn to God as powerfully and efficaciously through the instrumentality of an amusing but innocent story, as through those other means which are more commonly employed, and more directly adapted for these purposes. Moreover, I am pretty certain, too, that many a one who will never take up a book treating professedly of purely spiritual matters, one who, perhaps, will seldom assist at public sermons, may be brought under the influence of grace, may have his heart touched, and his mind enlightened and turned towards virtue and its practice, through the means of a story which, while it will avoid all appearance of preaching, will never lose sight of the high and holy motives which should influence every Catholic writer, and which will contrive so to "gild" the pill, that the patient, who would have turned away from it at once with utter disgust and with positive refusal, if it had been offered to him in its native bitterness, shall have it swallowed not only without repugnance, but even with positive relish, with licking of lips and longing for more, almost before he is aware of its presence on his tongue. And, now, having let you thus far into my secrets, my motives,

and my intentions, the least I can expect from you in return, gentle reader, is, that, with or without a gulp, according to the greater or less sweetness of your natural disposition, without any wry faces or shrugging of shoulders, you will faithfully read the next few pages of this story, although you are aware of the matter to be treated in them. To reconcile you still more to the dose, I promise faithfully to give you as little of it as ever I can, consistently with my purpose in writing my book, and to make it as attractive and palatable as ever I am able.

I have already mentioned that Eustace Percy, Tom Bowman, and myself entered Oxford together, and that this was in 182—. We soon settled down to the mode of life which was either pointed out to us by our tastes and inclinations, or forced upon us by our position and circumstances. Whilst Tom was engaged in bullying or dodging proctors, in worrying the very life out of inoffensive deans and conscientious tutors, in driving studious men who lived near him to the verge of distraction by the continual racket which went on in his rooms, in violating every law which could be transgressed with impunity, and a great many which could not be so broken, and in leading what was, I am afraid, a very wild and a very reckless life-whilst I was engaged in studying with all my power that I might carry off the highest university honours to which I could aspire-Eustace gave himself every day more and more keenly, more and more earnestly, to the study of those religious questions which had already taken such a hold upon his mind. We were together for at least some time every day, and our friendship, whilst it became more manly in its nature and expression, became also more

deep and earnest than ever. It was not very often he spoke to me of his religious opinions and views, partly, perhaps, because he saw instinctively that the subject was one in which I took little or no interest, except in so far as it concerned him, and partly, no doubt, because I could give him no assistance in his researches after truth, no aid in forming and developing his views; still, little as we spoke on this matter, I could not help seeing that, in the course of a few months, his views began to assume a definiteness and shape which they had never before possessed, and which seemed to give him great pleasure and satisfaction. Gradually, too, he began to speak to me more frequently on these subjects than he had hitherto done, and as I was always but too happy to give him any pleasure in my power, I seemed to take an interest in them, which was but too often, I am afraid, only put on.

"Ambrose," he several times said to me at this period, his eyes flashing, and his whole face lighting up with the intensity of the feeling under which he laboured, "Ambrose, I think I begin to see my way at last. The mists of the weary past are beginning to clear away. Not, you know, that I am at all certain about many things which are almost as mysterious as ever; but, still, I have got ideas which I never had before. During all the time we were at Atherby, and ever since I came here, I could not clearly make out what I was bound to believe, and what I was not bound to believe. In fact, sometimes I could scarcely tell whether I was bound to believe anything at all or not. There have been times when everything has been so vague an indistinct that I have been tempted, oh, so grievously tempted, to throw it over altogether, and to give