ber the draught," said the cardinal, "but I do remember
the welcome. When I was an undergraduate at Oxford, I made a little tour
of Ireland, during a long vacation. I had letters from Rome. One of them
was to the chapter at Ennis. A young priest took me to that house. I
went back many times. There was a daughter and there were several
strapping sons. The boys did nothing, that I could discover, but hunt
and shoot. They were amiable, however. The daughter hunted, also, but
she did many other things. She kept the house, she visited the poor, she
sang Irish songs to perfection, and she flirted beyond compare. She had
hair so black that I can give you no notion of its sheen; and eyes as
blue as our Venetian skies. Her name was Nora--Nora Blake. She was the
most beautiful woman I had ever seen--until yesterday."

"She was my mother!" exclaimed Miss O'Kelly.

"And my grandmother," said Lady Nora.

The cardinal drew a breath so sharp that it was almost a sob, then he
took Lady Nora's hand.

"My child," he said, "I am an old man. I am threescore years and ten,
and six more, and you bring back to me the happiest days of my youth.
You are the image of Nora Blake, yes, her very image. I kiss the images
of saints every day," he added, "why not this one?" and he bent and
kissed Lady Nora's hand.

There was so much solemnity in the act that an awkward pause might have
followed it had not Miss O'Kelly been Irish.

"Your imminence," she said, "since you've told us your age, I'll tell
you mine. I'm two-and-twenty and I'm mighty tired of standin'. Let's go
aft and have our tay."

They had taken but a few steps when Lady Nora, noticing the cardinal's
limp, drew his arm through her own and supported him.

"I know the whole story," she whispered. "You loved my grandmother."

"Yes," said the cardinal, "but I was unworthy."

IV

They had their tea, two white-clad stewards serving them. The cardinal
took a second cup and then rose and went to the side. He crumbled a
biscuit along the rail.

"I have often wondered," he said, "if my pigeons come for me or for my
crumbs. Nora Blake used to say that her poor were as glad to see her
without a basket as with one. But she was a saint. She saw things more
clearly than it is given to us to see them."

The women looked at each other, in silence.

"No," said the cardinal, after an interval, "they do not come; they are
as satisfied with Pietro's crumbs as with mine. Love is not a