dday, and the streets were clearing. But the intense
heat had broken, and there was a pleasant suggestion of rain. The
Piazza, with its three great attractions--the Palazzo Pubblico, the
Collegiate Church, and the Caffe Garibaldi: the intellect, the soul, and
the body--had never looked more charming. For a moment Philip stood in
its centre, much inclined to be dreamy, and thinking how wonderful it
must feel to belong to a city, however mean. He was here, however, as
an emissary of civilization and as a student of character, and, after a
sigh, he entered Santa Deodata's to continue his mission.

There had been a FESTA two days before, and the church still smelt of
incense and of garlic. The little son of the sacristan was sweeping the
nave, more for amusement than for cleanliness, sending great clouds
of dust over the frescoes and the scattered worshippers. The sacristan
himself had propped a ladder in the centre of the Deluge--which fills
one of the nave spandrels--and was freeing a column from its wealth of
scarlet calico. Much scarlet calico also lay upon the floor--for the
church can look as fine as any theatre--and the sacristan's little
daughter was trying to fold it up. She was wearing a tinsel crown. The
crown really belonged to St. Augustine. But it had been cut too big:
it fell down over his cheeks like a collar: you never saw anything so
absurd. One of the canons had unhooked it just before the FIESTA began,
and had given it to the sacristan's daughter.

"Please," cried Philip, "is there an English lady here?"

The man's mouth was full of tin-tacks, but he nodded cheerfully towards
a kneeling figure. In the midst of this confusion Miss Abbott was
praying.

He was not much surprised: a spiritual breakdown was quite to be
expected. For though he was growing more charitable towards mankind,
he was still a little jaunty, and too apt to stake out beforehand the
course that will be pursued by the wounded soul. It did not surprise
him, however, that she should greet him naturally, with none of the sour
self-consciousness of a person who had just risen from her knees. This
was indeed the spirit of Santa Deodata's, where a prayer to God is
thought none the worse of because it comes next to a pleasant word to
a neighbour. "I am sure that I need it," said she; and he, who had
expected her to be ashamed, became confused, and knew not what to reply.

"I've nothing to tell you," she continued. "I have simply changed
st