we and worship.

The pale, oval face was infinitely sweet, the slanting eyes of heavenly
blue were infinitely tender, the brown hair was plaited into two long
tresses that hung forward upon either breast and were entwined with
threads of gold and shimmering jewels. On the pale brow a brilliant
glowed with pure white fires, and her hands were held out to me in
welcome.

Her lips parted to breathe my name.

"Agostino d'Anguissola!" There were whole tomes of tender meaning in
those syllables, so that hearing her utter them I seemed to learn all
that was in her heart.

And then her shining whiteness suggested to me the name that must be
hers.

"Bianca!" I cried, and in my turn held out my arms and made as if to
advance towards her. But I was held back in icy, clinging bonds, whose
relentlessness drew from me a groan of misery.

"Agostino, I am waiting for you at Pagliano," she said, and it did not
occur to me to wonder where might be this Pagliano of which I could not
remember ever to have heard. "Come to me soon."

"I may not come," I answered miserably. "I am an anchorite, the guardian
of a shrine; and my life that has been full of sin must be given
henceforth to expiation. It is the will of Heaven."

She smiled all undismayed, smiled confidently and tenderly.

"Presumptuous!" she gently chid me. "What know you of the will of
Heaven? The will of Heaven is inscrutable. If you have sinned in
the world, in the world must you atone by deeds that shall serve the
world--God's world. In your hermitage you are become barren soil that
will yield naught to yourself or any. Come then from the wilderness.
Come soon! I am waiting!"

And on that the splendid vision faded, and utter darkness once more
encompassed me, a darkness through which still boomed repeatedly the
fading echo of the words:

"Come soon! I am waiting!"

. . . . . . . .

I lay upon my bed of wattles in the hut, and through the little unglazed
windows the sun was pouring, but the dripping eaves told of rain that
had lately ceased.

Over me was bending a kindly faced old man in whom I recognized the good
priest of Casi.

I lay quite still for a long while, just gazing up at him. Soon my
memory got to work of its own accord, and I bethought me of the pilgrims
who must by now have come and who must be impatiently awaiting news.

How came I to have slept so long? Vaguely I remembered my last night's
penance, and then came a black