That window!  That was where a light had shone the evening they arrived, and a nun—­Sister Winifred—­had stood drawing the thick curtains, shutting out the world.

He thought, in the intense stillness, that he heard sounds from that upper room.  Yes, surely an infant’s cry.

A curious, heavy-hearted feeling came upon him, as he turned away, and went slowly back towards the other house.

He halted a moment under the Cross, and stared up at it.  The door of the Fathers’ House opened, and the Travelling Priest stood on the threshold.  The Boy went over to him, nodding good-morning.

“So you are all ready—­eager to go from us?”

“No; but, you see—­”

“I see.”

He held the door open, and the Boy went in.

“I don’t believe the Colonel’s awake yet,” he said, as he took off his furs.  “I’ll just run up and rouse him.”

“It is very early”—­the priest laid his hand on the young man’s arm—­“and he will not sleep so well for many a night to come.  It is an hour till breakfast.”

Henry had lit the fire, and now left it roaring.  The priest took a chair, and pushed one forward for his guest.

The Boy sat down, stretched his legs out straight towards the fire, and lifting his hands, clasped them behind his head.  The priest read the homesick face like a book.

“Why are you up here?” Before there was time for reply he added:  “Surely a young man like you could find, nearer home, many a gate ajar.  And you must have had glimpses through of—­things many and fair.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve had glimpses of those things.”

“Well——­”

“What I wanted most I never saw.”

“You wanted——­”

“To be—­sure.”

“Ah! it is one of the results of agnosticism.”

The Boy never saw the smile.

“I’ve said—­and I was not lying—­that I came away to shorten the business of fortune-making—­to buy back an old place we love, my sister and I; but——­”

“Which does she love best, the old place or the young brother?”

“Oh, she cares about me—­no doubt o’ that.”  He smiled the smile of faith.

“Has she ... an understanding heart?”

“The most I know.”

“Then she would be glad to know you had found a home for the spirit.  A home for the body, what does it matter?”

In the pause, Father Brachet opened the door, but seemed suddenly to remember some imperative call elsewhere.  The Boy jumped up, but the Superior had vanished without even “Good-morning.”  The Boy sat down again.

“Of course,” he went on, with that touch of pedantry so common in American youth, “the difficulty in my case is an intellectual one.  I think I appreciate the splendid work you do, and I see as I never saw before——­” He stopped.

“You strike your foot against the same stone of stumbling over which the Pharisees fell, when the man whom Jesus healed by the way replied to their questioning:  ’Whether He be a sinner or no, I know not.  One thing I know, that whereas I was blind, now I see.’”