riests except one, and this one was
the young Italian whose acquaintance Brian had made upon the steamer.
They were talking rapidly together; one of them seemed to be questioning
the young man, and he was replying with the serene yet earnest
expression of countenance which had impressed Brian so favourably. At
first they stood still; by-and-bye they crossed the quadrangle, and here
Brother Dino fell somewhat behind the others. Following a sudden
impulse, Brian suddenly rose as he came near, and addressed him.

"Can you speak to me? I want to ask you about my father----"

He spoke in English, but the young priest replied in Italian.

"I cannot speak to you now. Wait till we meet at San Stefano."

The words might be abrupt, but the smile which followed them was so
sweet, so benign, that Brian was only struck with a sudden sense of the
beauty of the expression upon that keen Italian face. "God be with you!"
said Brother Dino, as he passed on. He stretched out his hand; it held
one of the faintly-pink, sweet roses, which he had plucked near the
cloister door. He almost thrust it into Brian's passive fingers. "God be
with you," he said, in his native tongue once more. "Farewell, brother."
In another moment he was gone. Brian had the green enclosure, the birds
and the roses to himself once more.

He looked down at the little overblown flower in his hand and carried it
mechanically to his nostrils. It was very sweet.

"Why does he think that I shall go to San Stefano?" he asked himself.
"What is San Stefano to me? Why should I meet him there?"

He sat down again, holding the flower loosely in one hand, and resting
his head upon the other. The old langour and sickness of heart were
coming back upon him; the momentary excitement had passed away. He would
have given a great deal to be able to rouse himself from the depression
which had taken such firm hold of his mind; but he failed to discover
any means of doing so. He had a vague, morbid fancy that Brother Dino
could help him to master his own trouble--he knew not how; but this hope
had failed him. He did not even care to go to San Stefano.

After a little time he remembered the letter in his pocket, addressed to
him in Mr. Colquhoun's handwriting. He took it out and looked at it for
a few minutes. Why should Mr. Colquhoun write to him unless he had
something unpleasant to say? Perhaps he was only forwarding some
letters. This quiet, grassy quadrangle was a good place in