certain delicacy in approaching You on the subject of money."

"Why?"

Father Benwell left the fireplace without immediately answering. He
opened a drawer and took out of it a flat mahogany box. His gracious
familiarity became transformed, by some mysterious process of
congelation, into a dignified formality of manner. The priest took the
place of the man.

"The Church, Mr. Romayne, hesitates to receive, as benevolent
contributions, money derived from property of its own, arbitrarily taken
from it, and placed in a layman's hands. No!" he cried, interrupting
Romayne, who instantly understood the allusion to Vange Abbey--"no!
I must beg you to hear me out. I state the case plainly, at your
own request. At the same time, I am bound to admit that the lapse of
centuries has, in the eye of the law, sanctioned the deliberate act of
robbery perpetrated by Henry the Eighth. You have lawfully inherited
Vange Abbey from your ancestors. The Church is not unreasonable enough
to assert a merely moral right against the law of the country. It
may feel the act of spoliation--but it submits." He unlocked the flat
mahogany box, and gently dropped his dignity: the man took the place of
the priest. "As the master of Vange," he said, "you may be interested in
looking at a little historical curiosity which we have preserved.
The title-deeds, dear Romayne, by which the monks held your present
property, in _their_ time. Take another glass of wine."

Romayne looked at the title-deeds, and laid them aside unread.

Father Benwell had roused his pride, his sense of justice, his wild