his own eyes the kind of propaganda that is going on.  Two of the books, inscribed Mark Lidderdale, are evidently the property of your nephew to whom I suppose my son is indebted for this wholesale corruption.  On questioning my son I found him already so sunk in the mire of the pernicious doctrines he has imbibed that he actually defied his own father.  I thrashed him severely in spite of my fever, and he is now under lock and key in his bedroom where he will remain until he sails with me to Sydney next week whither I am summoned to the conference of Australasian missionaries.  During the voyage I shall wrestle with the demon that has entered into my son and endeavour to persuade him that Jesus only is necessary for salvation.  And when I have done so, I shall leave him in Australia to earn his own living remote from the scene of his corruption.  In the circumstances I assume that you will deduct a proportion of his school fees for this term.  I know that you will be as much horrified and disgusted as I was by your nephew’s conduct, and I trust that you will be able to wrestle with him in the Lord and prove to him that Jesus only is necessary to salvation.

     Yours very truly,

     Eustace Pomeroy.

     P.S.  I suggest that instead of L6 6s. 0d.  I should pay L5 5s. 0d.
     for this term, plus, of course, the usual extras.

The pulse in Mr. Lidderdale’s temple had never throbbed so remarkably as while Mark was reading this letter.

“A fine thing,” he ranted, “if this story gets about in Slowbridge.  A fine reward for all my kindness if you ruin my school.  As for this man Ogilvie, I’ll sue him for damages.  Don’t look at me with that expression of bestial defiance.  Do you hear?  What prevents my thrashing you as you deserve?  What prevents me, I say?”

But Mark was not paying any attention to his uncle’s fury; he was thinking about the unfortunate martyr under lock and key in The Limes, Cranborne Road, Slowbridge.  He was wondering what would be the effect of this violent removal to the Antipodes and how that fundamental weakness of character would fare if Cyril were left to himself at his age.

“I think Mr. Pomeroy is a ruffian,” said Mark.  “Don’t you, Uncle Henry?  If he writes to the Bishop about Mr. Ogilvie, I shall write to the Bishop about him.  I hate Protestants.  I hate them.”

“There’s your father to the life.  You’d like to burn them, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, I would,” Mark declared.

“You’d like to burn me, I suppose?”

“Not you in particular.”

“Will you listen to him, Helen,” he shouted to his sister.  “Come here and listen to him.  Listen to the boy we took in and educated and clothed and fed, listen to him saying he’d like to burn his uncle.  Into Mr. Hitchcock’s office you go at once.  No more education if this is what it leads to.  Read that letter, Helen, look at that book, Helen. Catholic Prayers for