oon had just risen, and her light,
streaming across the river, fell full upon his face as he stood by the
parapet wall that led up to the bridge. He was so lost in thought that
he did not hear the conversation of two ladies who were advancing along
the pathway close behind him. As they brushed by him, the taller of the
two turned round and looked back at his face.

"Father Rocco!" exclaimed the lady, stopping.

"Donna Brigida!" cried the priest, looking surprised at first, but
recovering himself directly and bowing with his usual quiet politeness.
"Pardon me if I thank you for honoring me by renewing our acquaintance,
and then pass on to my brother's studio. A heavy affliction is likely to
befall us, and I go to prepare him for it."

"You refer to the dangerous illness of your niece?" said Brigida. "I
heard of it this evening. Let us hope that your fears are exaggerated,
and that we may yet meet under less distressing circumstances. I have no
present intention of leaving Pisa for some time, and I shall always be
glad to thank Father Rocco for the politeness and consideration which he
showed to me, under delicate circumstances, a year ago."

With these words she courtesied deferentially, and moved away to rejoin
her friend. The priest observed that Mademoiselle Virginie lingered
rather near, as if anxious to catch a few words of the conversation
between Brigida and himself. Seeing this, he, in his turn, listened as
the two women slowly walked away together, and heard the Italian say to
her companion: "Virginie, I will lay you the price of a new dress that
Fabio d'Ascoli marries again."

Father Rocco started when she said those words, as if he had trodden on
fire.

"My thought!" he whispered nervously to himself. "My thought at the
moment when she spoke to me! Marry again? Another wife, over whom I
should have no influence! Other children, whose education would not be
confided to me! What would become, then, of the restitution that I have
hoped for, wrought for, prayed for?"

He stopped, and looked fixedly at the sky above him. The bridge was
deserted. His black figure rose up erect, motionless, and spectral, with
the white still light falling solemnly all around it. Standing so for
some minutes, his first movement was to drop his hand angrily on the
parapet of the bridge. He then turned round slowly in the direction by
which the two women had walked away.

"Donna Brigida," he said, "I will lay you the price of f