ees.
"We have cursed him much. He took our daughter. It was a night of evil.
In that night the abbess died, and Sister Maria Addolorata was burned in
her cell, and the Englishman took our daughter. He took our one
daughter, Signora. We have not seen her more, not even her little
finger. It will be twenty-two years on the eve of the feast of St. Luke.
That is in October, Signora. He took our daughter. Poor little one! She
was young, young--perhaps she did not know what she did."

Gloria leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand and her elbow on
her knee, gazing at the old woman.

"She was a flower," said Nanna, simply. "He tore her from us with the
roots. Who knows what he did with her? She will be dead by this time.
May the Madonna obtain grace for her! Signora, she seemed one of those
flowers that grow on the hillside, just as God wills. Rain, sun, she was
always fresh. Then came the storm. Who could find her any more? Poor
little one!"

"Poor child!" exclaimed Gloria.

And she made Nanna tell all she knew, and how they had found the girl's
peasant dress in a corner of that very room.

"Signora, if you wish to see, I will content you," said Nanna, rising at
last.

She opened the box. It exhaled the peculiar odour of heavy cloth which
has been worn and has then been kept closely shut up for years. On the
top lay Annetta's carpet apron. Nanna held it up, and there were tears
in her eyes, glistening on her dry skin like water in a crevice of brown
rock.

"Signora, there are moths in it, see! Who cares for these things? They
are a memory. And this is her skirt, and this is her bodice. Eh, it was
beautiful once. The shoes, Signora, I wore them, for we had the same
feet. What would you? It seemed a sin to let them mould, because they
were hers. The apron, too, I might have worn it. Who knows why I did
not wear it? It was the affection. We are all so, we women. And now
there are moths in it. I might have worn it. At least it would not have
been lost."

Gloria peered into the box, and saw under the clothes a number of books
packed neatly with a box made of English oak. She stretched down her
hand and took one of the volumes. It was an English medical treatise.
She looked at the fly-leaf.

A loud cry from Gloria startled the old woman.

"Angus Dalrymple--but--" Gloria read the name and stared at Nanna.

"Eh, eh!" assented Nanna, nodding violently and smiling a little as she
at last recognized the Scotchman's n