not!' cried the governess almost impatiently. 'You might as
well think yourself in love with his tombstone and then fancy it a
sin!'

So one of Angela's three friends had answered her question very
definitely. The answer was not worthless, because Madame Bernard was a
very honest, matter-of-fact woman; on the contrary, it represented a
practical opinion, and that is always worth having, though the view it
defines may be limited. Angela did not try to explain further what she
had meant, and Madame Bernard always avoided subjects she could not
understand. The two chatted pleasantly about other things as they
returned to the convent, and the little Frenchwoman trotted
contentedly back to her lodgings, feeling that the person she loved
best in the world was certain to turn out a very good and happy nun.

Angela was not yet so sure of this, and she took the first opportunity
of consulting Monsignor Saracinesca. They sat and talked together on
one of the stone seats in the cloistered garden. He is a tall, thin
man, with a thoughtful face and a quiet manner. In his youth he was
once entangled in the quarrels of a Sicilian family, as I have
narrated elsewhere, and behaved with great heroism. After that, he
laboured for many years as a simple parish priest in a fever-plagued
district, and he only consented to return to Rome when he realised
that his health was gravely impaired.

Angela put her question with her usual directness and watched his
face. He knew her story, so that there was nothing to explain.

'Is it wrong to love him still?' she asked.

But Monsignor Ippolito did not speak until his silence had lasted so
long that Angela was a little frightened; not that he had any real
doubt as to her intention, but because it was his duty to examine such
a case of conscience in all its aspects.

'What does your own instinct tell you?' he asked at last.

'That it will not be wrong,' Angela answered with conviction. 'But I
may be mistaken. That is why I come to you for advice.'

Again the churchman mused in silence for a while.

'I will tell you what I think,' he said, when he had made up his mind.
'There is a condition, which depends only on yourself, and of which
you are the only judge. You ask my advice, but I can only show you how
to ask it of your own heart. If your love for the man who is gone
looks forward, prays and hopes, it will help you; if it looks back
with tears for what might have been and with longing for