s looked upon as medicine.

They reached the end of the last corridor. Dalrymple, like Sor Tommaso,
was admitted to the antechamber, while the portress waited outside to
conduct him back again. But Maria did not take him into the abbess's
parlour, into which she went at once, closing the door behind her.
Dalrymple sat down upon a carved wooden box-bench, and waited. The nun
was gone a long time.

"I have kept you waiting," she said, as she entered the little room
again.

"My time is altogether at your service, Sister Maria Addolorata," he
answered, rising quickly. "How is her most reverend excellency?"

"Very ill. I do not know what to say. She will not hear of seeing you.
I fear she will not live long, for she can hardly breathe."

"Does she cough?"

"Not much. Not so much as last night. She complains that she cannot draw
her breath and that her lungs feel full of something."

The case was evidently serious, and Dalrymple, who was a physician by
nature, proceeded to extract as much information as he could from the
nun, who did her best to answer all his questions clearly. The long
conversation, with its little restraints and its many attempts at a
mutual understanding, did more to accustom Maria Addolorata to
Dalrymple's presence and personality than any number of polite speeches
on his part could have done. There is an unavoidable tendency to
intimacy between any two people who are together engaged in taking care
of a sick person.

"I can give you directions and good advice," said Dalrymple, at last.
"But it can never be the same as though I could see the patient myself.
Is there no possible means of obtaining her consent? She may die for the
want of just such advice as I can only give after seeing her. Would not
her brother, his Eminence the Cardinal, perhaps recommend her to let me
visit her once?"

"That is an idea," answered the nun, quickly. "My uncle is a man of
broad views. I have heard it said in Rome. I could write to him that
Doctor Taddei is unable to come, and that a celebrated foreign physician
is here--"

"Not celebrated," interrupted Dalrymple, with his literal Scotch
veracity.

"What difference can it make?" uttered Maria Addolorata, moving her
shoulders a little impatiently. "He will be the more ready to use his
influence, for he is much attached to my aunt. Then, if he can persuade
her, I can send down the gardener to the town for you this afternoon. It
may not be too late."

"I see