on't know about the seminary, but I am sure you will miss me,
carino; perhaps almost as much as I shall miss you."

"I shall indeed; but I am very glad, for all that."

"Are you? I don't know that I am." He sat down at the table with a weary
look on his face; not the look of a man who is expecting high promotion.

"Are you busy this afternoon, Arthur?" he said after a moment. "If not,
I wish you would stay with me for a while, as you can't come to-night.
I am a little out of sorts, I think; and I want to see as much of you as
possible before leaving."

"Yes, I can stay a bit. I am due at six."

"One of your meetings?"

Arthur nodded; and Montanelli changed the subject hastily.

"I want to speak to you about yourself," he said. "You will need another
confessor in my absence."

"When you come back I may go on confessing to you, may I not?"

"My dear boy, how can you ask? Of course I am speaking only of the three
or four months that I shall be away. Will you go to one of the Fathers
of Santa Caterina?"

"Very well."

They talked of other matters for a little while; then Arthur rose.

"I must go, Padre; the students will be waiting for me."

The haggard look came back to Montanelli's face.

"Already? You had almost charmed away my black mood. Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye. I will be sure to come to-morrow."

"Try to come early, so that I may have time to see you alone. Father
Cardi will be here. Arthur, my dear boy, be careful while I am gone;
don't be led into doing anything rash, at least before I come back. You
cannot think how anxious I feel about leaving you."

"There is no need, Padre; everything is quite quiet. It will be a long
time yet."

"Good-bye," Montanelli said abruptly, and sat down to his writing.

The first person upon whom Arthur's eyes fell, as he entered the room
where the students' little gatherings were held, was his old playmate,
Dr. Warren's daughter. She was sitting in a corner by the window,
listening with an absorbed and earnest face to what one of the
"initiators," a tall young Lombard in a threadbare coat, was saying to
her. During the last few months she had changed and developed greatly,
and now looked a grown-up young woman, though the dense black plaits
still hung down her back in school-girl fashion. She was dressed all in
black, and had thrown a black scarf over her head, as the room was cold
and draughty. At her breast was a spray of cypress, the emblem of Young
Italy