f the hopelessness from which her own words and looks
aroused him. He spoke much, also, of Dino and of Padre Cristoforo and
the kindly monks: and in the sunny stillness of an early Italian morning
they went to the churchyard to look for Dino's grave.

They would not have found it but for the help of a monk who chanced to
be in the neighbourhood. He led them courteously to the spot. It was
unmarked by any stone, but a wreath of flowers had been laid upon it
that morning, and the grassy mound showed signs of constant care. Brian
and Elizabeth stood silently beside it; they did not move until the monk
addressed them. And then Brian saw that Father Cristoforo was standing
at their side.

"He sleeps well," he said. "You need not mourn for him."

"Yes, he sleeps," answered Brian, a little bitterly. "But we have lost
him."

"Do I not know that as well as you? Do I not grieve for him?" said the
old man, with a deep sigh. "I have more reason to grieve than you. I
have never yet told you how he died. Come with me and I will let you
hear."

They followed him to the guest-room of the monastery, and there, whilst
they waited for him to speak, he threw back his cowl and fixed his eyes
on Elizabeth's fair face.

"It was for your sake," he said, "for your sake, in part, that Dino left
his duty to the Church undone. It was your face, signora, that came, as
he told me, between him and his prayers. I am glad that I have seen you
before I die."

He spoke mournfully, yet meditatively--more as if he was talking to
himself than to her. Elizabeth shrank back a little, and Brian uttered a
quick exclamation.

"Her face?" he said. "Father, what does this mean?"

The monk gave a start, and seemed to rouse himself from a dream.

"Pardon me," he said, gently; "I am growing an old man, and I have had
much to bear. I spoke without thought. Let me tell you the story of
Dino's death."

As far as he knew it, as far as he guessed it, he told the story. And
when Brian uttered some strong ejaculation of anger and grief at its
details, Father Cristoforo bowed his head upon his breast, folded his
hands, and sighed.

"I was wrong," he said. "You do well to rebuke me, my son; for I was
wrong."

"You were hard, you were cruel," said Brian, vehemently.

"Yes, I was hard; I was cruel. But I am punished. The light of my eyes
has been taken from me. I have lost the son that I loved."

"You will see him again," said Elizabeth, softly. "You will go