asions, and that his true nature lay many
a fathom deep below that smooth surface. The devout respect which he
felt for the Abbe might, perhaps, have increased this reserve; for
Meekins was an Irish peasant, and never forgot the deference due to a
priest.

Accustomed to read men at sight, D'Esmonde would give himself no trouble
in deciphering a page which promised little to reward the labor; and
so, after a while, he left his companion to occupy the "box," while he
himself followed his own thoughts alone and undisturbed. Now and then
he would be aroused from his deep reveries by remarking the reverential
piety of the peasants as they passed some holy shrine or some
consecrated altar. Then, indeed, Meekins displayed a fervor so unlike
the careless indifference of the native, that D'Esmonde was led to
reflect upon the difference of their natures, and speculate on how far
this devotion of character was innate in the Irishman, or merely the
result of circumstances.

There was an expression of eager, almost painful meaning, too, in the
man's face as he muttered his prayers, that struck the keen eyes of the
Abbe; and he could not avoid saying to himself, "That fellow has a load
upon his heart. Fear, and not hope, is the mainspring of his devotions."
At another moment D'Esmonde might have studied the case as a
philosopher studies a problem,--merely for the exercise it may give his
faculties,--but his own cares were too pressing and too numerous for
more than a passing notice.

The night was falling as they gained the crest of the mountain
over Florence; D'Esmonde stopped the carriage on the hill above the
"Moskova," and gazed steadily for some moments on the spot. The villa,
partly shrouded in trees, was brilliantly illuminated; the lights
gleamed and sparkled through the foliage, and, as he listened, the sound
of rich music came floating on the air.

"This looks little like seclusion," thought he. "These are signs of some
great festivity." As he drew up to the gate, however, he found it closed
and locked. Not a carriage was to be seen. Even the usual lamps were
unlighted, and all appeared deserted and unoccupied. D'Esmonde stood
for a few seconds buried in thought; his emotion was deep and heartfelt;
for, as he grasped the iron bars of the gate, his strong frame shook and
trembled. "True--true!" muttered he to himself in an accent of almost
bursting agony,--"I could not have given thee this, Lola, and for this
alone hads