t he has not lost all
grace, because he begged me so earnestly to pray for him; he said his
prayers could do no good, and wanted mine. And then I began to tell him
about you, dear uncle, and how you came from that blessed convent in
Florence, and about your master Savonarola; and that seemed to interest
him, for he looked quite excited, and spoke the name over, as if it were
one he had heard before. I wanted to urge him to come and open his case
to you; and I think perhaps I might have succeeded, but that just then
you and grandmamma came up the path; and when I heard you coming, I
begged him to go, because you know grandmamma would be very angry, if
she knew that I had given speech to a man, even for a few moments; she
thinks men are so dreadful."

"I must seek this youth," said the monk, in a musing tone; "perhaps I
may find out what inward temptation hath driven him away from the fold."

"Oh, do, dear uncle! do!" said Agnes, earnestly. "I am sure that he has
been grievously tempted and misled, for he seems to have a noble and
gentle nature; and he spoke so feelingly of his mother, who is a saint
in heaven; and he seemed so earnestly to long to return to the bosom of
the Church."

"The Church is a tender mother to all her erring children," said the
monk.

"And don't you think that our dear Holy Father the Pope will forgive
him?" said Agnes. "Surely, he will have all the meekness and gentleness
of Christ, who would rejoice in one sheep found more than in all the
ninety-and-nine who went not astray."

The monk could scarcely repress a smile at imagining Alexander the
Sixth in this character of a good shepherd, as Agnes's enthusiastic
imagination painted the head of the Church; and then he gave an inward
sigh, and said, softly, "Lord, how long?"

"I think," said Agnes, "that this young man is of noble birth, for his
words and his bearing and his tones of voice are not those of common
men; even though he speaks so humbly and gently, there is yet something
princely that looks out of his eyes, as if he were born to command; and
he wears strange jewels, the like of which I never saw, on his hands and
at the hilt of his dagger,--yet he seems to make nothing of them. But
yet, I know not why, he spoke of himself as one utterly desolate and
forlorn. Father Francesco told me that he was captain of a band of
robbers who live in the mountains. One cannot think it is so."

"Little heart," said the monk, tenderly, "you can sc