“I can not, to-night.”

“You won't, you mean,”

“I did not say that.”

“But you mean it. Well, I can go up the road and get the Meloche boys, and the Poultneys, and others. Mark my words, Roy; I'll get even with you for this. You'll be sorry for it yet. It's a mean trick. Get up, Nance.”

And he gave the mare a vicious cut, which sent her rearing and racing up the dusty country road, giving the ill-tempered boy all he could do to prevent the spirited animal from running away with him.

A week later, Roy Henning was surprised to learn that Andrew Garrett was to be a student at St. Cuthbert's the coming term. His first effort at “getting even”with his cousin was attempted as we have seen in the preceding chapter, when Henning made the unwelcome announcement of his retirement from college sports.

CHAPTER III

The Conditions

THE following morning, Mr. Henning called Roy to him soon after breakfast. When the two had taken seats under a shady beech on the lawn, Roy saw that his father appeared moody, and as if suffering from a great disappointment.

“What is this I hear about your refusing to go to your Aunt Garrett's last night?”

“I did not refuse to go and see Aunt Helen, sir. Andrew wanted me to go and dance. I did not care to dance. Nor could I have gone and retained my self-respect.”

“Dear me! dear me! Are not your Aunt Helen's children and their friends good enough associates for you?”

“Quite good enough. But, sir, you mistake my meaning. I had two reasons for refusing. I do not care for dancing, and do not care to be made a mere convenience of, nor do I wish to be patronized by my cousin Garrett. My other reason was that I was anxious and worried, having received no word from you since I told you of my earnest desire to study for the priesthood.”

“Ah! Yes, to be sure. You may think my abrupt leaving you last night was a strange proceeding. It was. I am sorry I vexed you. I want to be kind.”

“Thank you, Father; I am sure you do.”

Mr. Henning was not a demonstratively affectionate man, and it must be charged to heredity that his

own child possessed decidedly similar characteristics, especially in all absence of demonstrativeness. Roy loved his father deeply, but no terms of endearment or outward show of affection, so far as the boy could remember, had ever passed between them. If Roy had only known he could have crept very close to his father's heart this morning. If Roy could have known just then, he would have seen his father's heart sore and sensitive, trying to discipline itself into renouncing its life-long ambition—that of his son's advancement. He had so earnestly wished the boy to adopt his own profession. Was he not already getting along in years? Would not a partner in his law practice become ere long an imperative necessity?

He had too clear and too well-trained a mind not to see the futility of attempting to thwart the boy's inclinations. He was too sincere a Catholic of principle and too well instructed in the obligations of his faith to wish effectually to prevent or destroy a vocation, and yet—oh, it was hard! It was a sore trial to give up his dream of years!

“Thank you, Father; I am sure you wish to be kind.”

Roy, seeing that his father had remained silent an unusually long time, repeated his remark. The elder man's lips twitched. The muscles of his cheeks moved with the strong emotions he was experiencing.

“Oh, Roy, Roy! Think what it all means for me! My shattered hopes for you! I know that as a Catholic I dare not thwart you in following so high a vocation, nor would I have it on my conscience to do so. But all my shattered hopes of you! I have wealth and position, but they are not everything. I have looked forward to you as my prop

and stay and my honor in my declining years. Must you—must you leave us? Are you sure of this call? Is it not a mere passing fancy, such as many good and pure boys have? Are you sure that your duty does not point to your family rather than to the seminary? Are you sure, my lad?”

The old gentleman's words were almost passionate. Young Henning was unwontedly affected. He had never been placed in so peculiar a position. His father evidently regarded him now, spoke to him, even appealed to him, as to a man, with a man's responsibilities. For a moment he was thrilled with exquisite pleasure in being so treated, but he did not waver in his purpose. He knew that he would probably add to his father's regrets, yet he was conscious that he could not hold out the faintest hope that the parental wish, which appeared to run contrary to what he now conceived to be his plain duty, would be gratified.

“My dear father,” he said, “I am sorry to cause you pain, but I believe I have this vocation and I must, in conscience, follow it.”

There was a long pause.

“Well—what must be, must be, I suppose, but, my child, have you well considered the step? Are you willing to live on a meager pittance, as most priests do? Are you willing to lead a life of penurious denial and of study? Can you face the ordeal of the confessional for hours at a time, listening to tales of misery, wretchedness, and degradation? Can you be strong with the strong, and not too strong with the weak? Can you bear all this? Are you sure of yourself?”

Now Roy Henning, during the previous year at St. Cuthbert's had thought over the question of his vocation time and time again, examining himself

rigorously as to his fitness, and, as far as his experience allowed, reviewing the life of the ordinary parish priest. He saw clearly that no one embraced the priestly life from a purely natural motive. Such as did, he argued, must become failures, and unfit for their state. He had, as every one who has a true vocation, a higher motive than a merely natural one. With him the supernatural was paramount, and in its light all prosaic, squalid, unheroic circumstances sank into insignificance. He, therefore, answered:

“Yes, sir, I have thought it all over. I firmly believe I have a vocation, and after I graduate, I think it will be my duty to enter a seminary with a view to probing and testing it.”

“I will not thwart you, my boy; I dare not. But do you think yourself worthy of so high a calling?”

“I do not, indeed, Father; but my confessor encourages me to go on.”

Mr. Henning sighed on discovering that the opinion of the boy's confessor was averse to his wishes—sighed as if giving up his last hope of being able to change his son's views. He then altered his manner suddenly, as if ashamed of having displayed emotion before any member of his family. He was again the sharp, shrewd man of affairs.

“Very well, sir,” he said, with a crispness in his voice which hitherto had been absent; “you take your degree the coming year. After that you have my permission to enter a seminary. I will be responsible for your expenses until your ordination. As you desire, however, to enter a hard and self-denying life I consider it my duty to test you myself to some extent during the coming school year.”

In the midst of the delight at his father's capitulation, Roy looked up in surprise. He wondered what was coming next.

“You must apply yourself wholly and solely to your studies. I shall allow you only twenty-five dollars for your private expenses, and I desire and insist that for the last year of your college life you relinquish all sports of whatsoever kind.”