ng man with a long,
thin, pale face, and when Sister Angela first took me up to him she
said:

"This is our Margaret Mary."

Then his sad face broke into warm sunshine, and he stroked my head, and
sent me away to skip with my skipping-rope, while he and Sister Angela
sat together under the tree, and afterwards walked to and fro in the
avenue between the stone pines and the wall, until they came to his cell
in the corner, where she craned her neck at the open door as if she
would have liked to go in and make things more tidy and comfortable.

On Christmas Day we had currant cake in honour of the feast, and Sister
Angela asked Father Giovanni to come to tea, and he came, and was quite
cheerful, so that when the Sister, who was also very happy, signalled to
me to take some mistletoe from the bottom of a picture I held it over
his head and kissed him from behind. Then he snatched me up in his arms
and kissed me back, and we had a great romp round the chairs and tables.

But the Ave Maria began to ring from the churches, and Father Giovanni
(according to the rule of our Convent) having to go, he kissed me again,
and then I said:

"Why don't you kiss Sister Angela too?"

At that they only looked at each other and laughed, but after a moment
he kissed her hand, and then she went downstairs to see him out into the
garden.

When she came back her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed,
and, that night, when she took away her black and white whimple and
gorget on going to bed, she stood before a looking-glass and wound her
beautiful light hair round her finger and curled it over her forehead
in the way it was worn by the ladies we saw in the streets.

I think it was two nights later that she told me I was to go to bed
early because Father Giovanni was not well and she would have to go over
to see him.

She went, and I got into bed, but I could not sleep, and while I lay
waiting for Sister Angela I listened to some men who as they crossed the
piazza were singing, in tremulous voices, to their mandolines and
guitars, what I believed to be love songs, for I had begun to learn
Italian.

"_Oh bella Napoli. Oh suol beato
Onde soiridere volta il creato_."

It was late when Sister Angela came back and then she was breathing hard
as if she had been running. I asked if Father Giovanni's sickness was
worse, and she said no, it was better, and I was to say nothing about
it. But she could not rest and at