he concluded, and no sooner
had he shaped this thought in his mind than he heard it uttered for him
on the opposite side of the pillar in a voice made soft by indulgent
tenderness, "Just a great picture-book." He leaned forward at the sound
far enough to have a glimpse of the Girl from Home, and smiled at her.

"So you've found that out, have you?" It was not strange to find himself
addressing her friendlily nor to hear her answer him.

"Just a picture-book," she repeated. "It explains so much. What the
saints were to them, and the Holy Personages. Monkish tales to prey upon
their superstition, we were taught. But you can see here what they
really were, the wonder tales of a people, the fairy wonder and the
blessed happenings come true as they do in dreams. Oh, it must have been
a good time when the saints were on the earth."

"You believe in them, then?"

"Here in San Marco, yes. But not when I am in Bloombury."

"Oh!" cried Peter, "are you really from Bloombury? I knew you were from
up country but I hardly dared to hope--if you will permit me----" He
searched for his card which she accepted without looking at it.

"You are Mr. Peter Weatheral, aren't you? Mrs. Merrithew thought she
recognized you yesterday."

"Is that why she glared at me so? But anyway I am obliged to her, though
I haven't vestige of a recollection of her."

"She didn't suppose you had. Her husband sold you some land once. But of
course everybody in Bloombury knows the Mr. Weatheral who went from
there to the city and made his fortune."

"A sorry one," said Peter. "But if you are really from Bloombury why
don't I remember you? I go there with Ellen every summer, and _she_
knows everybody."

"Yes; she is so kind. Everybody says that. But I'm really from Harmony.
I taught the Bloombury school last year. I am Savilla Dassonville."

"Oh, I knew your father then! Now that I come to think of it, it was he
who laid the foundation of my greatness," Peter smiled whimsically. "And
I knew your mother; she was a very lovely lady."

He realized as the girl's eyes filled with tears, that this must have
been the child at whose birth, he had heard, the mother had died. "But I
suppose we mustn't talk about Bloombury in San Marco," he blamed his
inadvertence, "though that doesn't seem to want talking about either.
When you said that just now about its being a picture-book, I was
thinking how like it was to one of those places I used to go to in my
youth-