ery pretty girl in a convent than with a husband. It's
natural enough, too. Father Francesco will be like the rest of the
world: when he can't help a thing, he will see the will of the Lord in
it."

Thus prosperously the world seemed to go with old Elsie. Meantime, when
her back was turned, as she was kneeling over her basket, sorting out
lemons, Agnes happened to look up, and there, just under the arch of the
gateway, where she had seen him the first time, sat the cavalier on a
splendid horse, with a white feather streaming backward from his black
riding-hat and dark curls.

He bowed low and kissed his hand to her, and before she knew it her eyes
met his, which seemed to flash light and sunshine all through her; and
then he turned his horse and was gone through the gate, while she,
filled with self-reproach, was taking her little heart to task for the
instantaneous throb of happiness which had passed through her whole
being at that sight. She had not turned away her head, nor said a
prayer, as Father Francesco told her to do, because the whole thing had
been sudden as a flash; but now it was gone, she prayed, "My God, help
me not to love him!--let me love Thee alone!" But many times in the
course of the day, as she twisted her flax, she found herself wondering
whither he could be going. Had he really gone to that enchanted
cloud-land, in the old purple Apennines, whither he wanted to carry
her,--gone, perhaps, never to return? That was best. But was he
reconciled with the Church? Was that great, splendid soul that looked
out of those eyes to be forever lost, or would the pious exhortations of
her uncle avail? And then she thought he had said to her, that, if she
would go with him, he would confess and take the sacrament, and be
reconciled with the Church, and so his soul be saved.

She resolved to tell this to Father Francesco. Perhaps he
would----No,--she shivered as she remembered the severe, withering look
with which the holy father had spoken of him, and the awfulness of his
manner,--he would never consent. And then her grandmother----No, there
was no possibility.

Meanwhile Agnes's good old uncle sat in the orange-shaded garden, busily
perfecting his sketches; but his mind was distracted, and his thoughts
wandered,--and often he rose, and, leaving his drawings, would pace up
and down the little place, absorbed in earnest prayer. The thought of
his master's position was hourly growing upon him. The real world w