"We thought it better, Brother Cuthbert, that you should not know the name of your birthplace. Ties of kindred are strong at times; and, as I have often observed to you, when a man becomes a priest, he ceases to have any kindred ties. The Church is your mother, her monks are your brethren, her nuns your sisters. Be satisfied."
Stevens was far too much accustomed to instant and implicit submission to offer the slightest remonstrance to this slight mandate. But this was the first time that he had ever received a detailed account of his origin. He knew that he had been brought to the monastery as an infant, but hitherto he had known nothing more, and had naturally supposed himself to be a foundling. In this idea he had grown up. He had never loved any human being, nor, so far as he knew, had any human being ever loved him. But that afternoon a vision rose before him of the poor Huguenot mother coming back from her thoughtless expedition to find her darling gone. He wished he could have found her. He would have tried to convert her to Romanism if he had done so; for he honestly believed his Church the true one. But she might perhaps have loved him; and nobody ever had done so hitherto.
"In these papers, Brother Cuthbert," resumed the old Jesuit, "you will find instructions in cipher. I need not charge you to keep them carefully."
Stevens put them safely away in a private pocket.
"And I will detain you no longer."
Stevens had reached the door, when he turned back.
"Father Boniface, if you think it not an improper request, would you tell me in what part of France I was found?"
Father Boniface looked into his young friend's face, and thought it a very improper request. But he had his own reasons for not bluntly refusing an answer.
"In Auvergne, my son," he said, shortly. "Ask no more."
Cuthbert Stevens passed out of the whitesmith's shop without stopping for his customary five minutes' chat with Mrs. Butler.