rest
within the church; in going out to see the tiny garden, where grow the
thornless rose-bushes with blood-stained leaves, according to the old
tradition, at which they were permitted to look through glass; and in
listening to the rambling talk of a transparent-faced old monk in brown,
Franciscan garb, who waxed more and more daring as he watched the
interested faces of the party, until his tales of the patron saint grew
so impossible that even poor Bettina's faith was sorely tried, and
Malcom stole furtive glances at her to see how she bore it all.

At length they were free, and went on up the hill to the city. They
stopped at a little hotel whose balcony commanded a magnificent view of
the country, lingered a while, lunched, and then went out to visit the
great double church of San Francesco, beneath which the saint is buried,
and where are notable frescoes by Cimabue and Giotto.

When all was over, and they were taking their carriages for Perugia, Mr.
Sumner said to his sister: "If you do not mind, I will drive in the
other carriage," and so took his seat with Barbara, Bettina, and Malcom.
All felt a little tired and were silent for a time, each busy with his
own thoughts. Finally Barbara asked, in a thoughtful tone:--

"Did you notice the names on the leaves of the travellers' book at the
hotel? I glanced over the opposite page as I wrote mine, and among the
addresses were Australia, Germany, Norway, England, and America."

"I noticed it," answered Mr. Sumner, "and of course, like you, could not
help asking myself the question, 'Why do travellers from all parts of
the Christian world come to this small city, which is so utterly
unimportant as the world reckons importance?' Simply because a good man
was once born, lived, and died here. Surely one renews one's faith in
God and humanity as one thinks of this fact."

"May not the paintings alone draw some visitors?" asked Malcom, after
thinking for a few moments of his uncle's words.

"But even then we must allow that the paintings would not have been here
if it were not for the saint; so it really amounts to about the same
thing, doesn't it?" answered his uncle, smiling.

"What a pity it is," said Bettina, thinking of the garrulous old monk
who so evidently desired to earn his _lira_, "that people will add so
much that is imaginary when there is enough that is true. It is a shame
to so exaggerate stories of St. Francis's life as to make them seem
almost ridicu