rful voice," Martini assented, catching at a subject of
conversation which might lead her away from the dreadful memory called
up by the river, "and he is, apart from his voice, about the finest
preacher I have ever heard. But I believe the secret of his influence
lies deeper than that. It is the way his life stands out from that of
almost all the other prelates. I don't know whether you could lay your
hand on one other high dignitary in all the Italian Church--except the
Pope himself--whose reputation is so utterly spotless. I remember, when
I was in the Romagna last year, passing through his diocese and seeing
those fierce mountaineers waiting in the rain to get a glimpse of him or
touch his dress. He is venerated there almost as a saint; and that means
a good deal among the Romagnols, who generally hate everything that
wears a cassock. I remarked to one of the old peasants,--as typical a
smuggler as ever I saw in my life,--that the people seemed very much
devoted to their bishop, and he said: 'We don't love bishops, they are
liars; we love Monsignor Montanelli. Nobody has ever known him to tell a
lie or do an unjust thing.'"

"I wonder," Gemma said, half to herself, "if he knows the people think
that about him."

"Why shouldn't he know it? Do you think it is not true?"

"I know it is not true."

"How do you know it?"

"Because he told me so."

"HE told you? Montanelli? Gemma, what do you mean?"

She pushed the hair back from her forehead and turned towards him. They
were standing still again, he leaning on the balustrade and she slowly
drawing lines on the pavement with the point of her umbrella.

"Cesare, you and I have been friends for all these years, and I have
never told you what really happened about Arthur."

"There is no need to tell me, dear," he broke in hastily; "I know all
about it already."

"Giovanni told you?"

"Yes, when he was dying. He told me about it one night when I was
sitting up with him. He said---- Gemma, dear, I had better tell you the
truth, now we have begun talking about it--he said that you were always
brooding over that wretched story, and he begged me to be as good a
friend to you as I could and try to keep you from thinking of it. And I
have tried to, dear, though I may not have succeeded--I have, indeed."

"I know you have," she answered softly, raising her eyes for a moment;
"I should have been badly off without your friendship. But--Giovanni did
not tell you about Mo