eing, and that I exaggerate the
importance my views may have in the sight of God. I fear I do not live
up to my views. I fear my indignation is too great against those who do
not share them, against my persecutors, against that Swiss Abbe who came
here with Dane, and probably talked of what was then said in our midst
as he should not have done, and in places where he should have kept
silent. I fear my life is one of too great inactivity, of too great
ease, of too much pleasure, for to me study is a delight. I even doubt
my love of God, because I feel too lightly the love of my neighbour. I
am often reminded that the mystic pleasures may lull my conscience on
this point. You, Maria, you live your faith; you visit the sick, work
for the poor, you comfort, you instruct. I do nothing."

"I am one with you," Maria whispered. "You made me what I am. Besides,
you distribute the alms of the intellect."

"No, no! Those words applied to me are presumptuous!" Maria knew that
the loving sense of human fraternity was not strong in Glovanni.
She felt--and she was loath to confess it even to herself--that this
deficiency incapacitated her husband for the successful fulfilment of
that great religious apostolate which should have resulted from his
intellectual powers, and that deep and enlightened faith, which in him
was more the fruit of genius, of study, of love of the divine, than of
tradition or habit. She reproached herself for having sometimes rejoiced
at Giovanni's coldness towards his fellows, for it lent a precious
flavour to the treasures of affection he lavished upon herself.
Nevertheless he was conscious of the fraternal obligations, and she had
never known him turn a deaf ear to an appeal, or seen him insensible to
the grief of others. He did not feel, and therefore did not love God in
man, which is the most sublime flame of charity; he felt and loved man
in God, which is a cold love, as would be the love of one who was kind
to his brother solely to please their father. But this last is the
temper common to even the best of human hearts. Giovanni's heart was
tempered thus; he could not give out that sublime charity of which he
humbly and sadly acknowledged himself to be void. Maria, caressing his
hair with infinite tenderness, dreamed that sweet, divine, indulgence
flowed out upon that head through her heart and her hands.

"Listen," said she. "I am going to propose to you at once an act of
charity in which there is much