t," acknowledged the daughter.

"Poor little mouse," said the mother soothingly. "It is hungry, perhaps,
and fond of cake. My dear, it will eat cake; it will not eat you."

We caught sight of our industrious host in his garden surveying his
possessions, and escaped. The cook stood in his doorway in white cap and
apron, a satisfactory object in all hotels. Over the slanting tiled roof
grew the fruitful vine, a picture of beauty. Our host, surrounded by
his birds and pigeons, was vainly imploring the nightingales to sing.
They only looked at him with their little black eyes, opened their
beaks, shook their heads, and said as plainly as possible that the song
had left them. It would return with next year's leaves and garlands,
more glorious for the rest.

"I should have liked you to hear them," said their proud owner in quite
a melancholy voice. "You would have thought yourselves in Italy, as I
often do."

"Or on the Rhine, or the Blue Moselle, or the Dauphine Alps, Senor
Lasoli, where the nightingales assemble in myriads, and sing and rave
night and day through the weeks of spring. We have heard them."

"They are more beautiful near water," said our host. "The song gains
volume and vibration by being carried across. But I have chiefly heard
them in our woods on the Mediterranean shores. France to me is a sealed
book. So, senor, you leave us, and I cannot even wish you to remain.
To-morrow you would not be in your element. Gerona will be out of joint
until we settle down again to our normal condition. I trust you will one
day return, and that your friend will write an epic poem in honour of
our town. It would certainly be translated and might be dedicated to the
Senorita Costello. He would be feted on his arrival; fireworks,
illuminations, and municipal addresses. The hubbub of conscription would
be nothing to it. At five o'clock, senor, the omnibus will be at your
service."

As we went through the haunted corridors to our rooms, Delormais came up
the marble staircase, apparently somewhat hurried.

"We are both on the wing," he cried, "and so I the less regret your
going. I thought to have stayed until to-morrow, but sudden news compels
me to leave to-night. Summoned to Rome, I must obey. I know that I have
a battle before me, and also know that I shall win. Conquering as a
humble Vicar of Rheims, I shall not do less as Bishop of X. You will see
me dismissed with a Cardinal's hat, an honour I would not cross the roa