ses you.
If not, let us talk of other things.'

'You cannot help me.' Her thin lips closed upon each other in an even
line.

'I am sorry,' answered the churchman gravely. 'As for Sister
Giovanna's intention, I share your opinion, for I think she can do
more good here than by sacrificing herself in Burmah. If she consults
me, I shall tell her so.'

'Thank you.'

They parted, and the Mother Superior went back to her room and her
work with a steady step and holding her head high. But she did not
even see a lay sister who was scrubbing her small private staircase,
and who rose to let her pass, saluting her as she went by.

Monsignor Saracinesca left the garden by the glass door that opened
into the large hall, already described, and he went out past the
portress's little lodge. She was just opening the outer door when he
came up with her, and the next moment he found himself face to face
with Madame Bernard. He stepped back politely to let her pass, and
lifted his hat with a smile of recognition; but instead of advancing
she uttered a little cry of surprise and satisfaction, and retreated
to let him come out. He noticed that her face betrayed great
excitement, and she seemed hardly able to speak.

'What is the matter?' he asked kindly, as he emerged from the deep
doorway.

The portress was waiting for Madame Bernard to enter, but the
Frenchwoman had changed her mind and held up her hand, shaking one
forefinger.

'Not to-day, Anna!' she cried. 'Or later--I will come back, perhaps--I
cannot tell. May I walk a few steps with you, Monseigneur?'

'By all means,' answered the prelate.

The door of the Convent closed behind them, but Madame Bernard was
evidently anxious to get well out of hearing before she spoke. At the
corner of the quiet street she suddenly stood still and looked up to
her companion's face, evidently in great perturbation.

'Well?' he asked. 'What is it?'

'Giovanni Severi is alive.'

Monsignor Saracinesca thought the good woman was dreaming.

'It is impossible,' he said emphatically.

'On the contrary,' returned Madame Bernard, 'it is perfectly true. If
you do not believe me, look at this!'

She opened her governess's reticule and fumbled amongst the little
school-books and papers it contained. In a moment she brought out a
letter, sealed, stamped, and postmarked, and held it up before the
tall prelate's eyes.

It was addressed to 'Donna Angela Chiaromonte,' to the care of Madame
Berna