raight round. If I had planned the whole thing out, I could not have
treated you worse. I can talk it over now; but please believe that I
have been crying."

"And please believe that I have not come to scold you," said Philip. "I
know what has happened."

"What?" asked Miss Abbott. Instinctively she led the way to the famous
chapel, the fifth chapel on the right, wherein Giovanni da Empoli has
painted the death and burial of the saint. Here they could sit out of
the dust and the noise, and proceed with a discussion which promised to
be important.

"What might have happened to me--he had made you believe that he loved
the child."

"Oh, yes; he has. He will never give it up."

"At present it is still unsettled."

"It will never be settled."

"Perhaps not. Well, as I said, I know what has happened, and I am not
here to scold you. But I must ask you to withdraw from the thing for the
present. Harriet is furious. But she will calm down when she realizes
that you have done us no harm, and will do none."

"I can do no more," she said. "But I tell you plainly I have changed
sides."

"If you do no more, that is all we want. You promise not to prejudice
our cause by speaking to Signor Carella?"

"Oh, certainly. I don't want to speak to him again; I shan't ever see
him again."

"Quite nice, wasn't he?"

"Quite."

"Well, that's all I wanted to know. I'll go and tell Harriet of your
promise, and I think things'll quiet down now."

But he did not move, for it was an increasing pleasure to him to be
near her, and her charm was at its strongest today. He thought less of
psychology and feminine reaction. The gush of sentimentalism which had
carried her away had only made her more alluring. He was content to
observe her beauty and to profit by the tenderness and the wisdom that
dwelt within her.

"Why aren't you angry with me?" she asked, after a pause.

"Because I understand you--all sides, I think,--Harriet, Signor Carella,
even my mother."

"You do understand wonderfully. You are the only one of us who has a
general view of the muddle."

He smiled with pleasure. It was the first time she had ever praised
him. His eyes rested agreeably on Santa Deodata, who was dying in full
sanctity, upon her back. There was a window open behind her, revealing
just such a view as he had seen that morning, and on her widowed
mother's dresser there stood just such another copper pot. The saint
looked neither at the view nor at