ther, had ever seen her so much touched by
pity, so humane, forbearing, and kind.

'If you would like me to understand what has happened, my dear child,
you can trust me,' she said. 'If you would rather keep your secret,
tell me if I can help you.'

Sister Giovanna looked at her gratefully and tried to speak, but it
was hard; not that she was choking, or near to shedding tears, but her
lips felt stiff and cold, like a dying man's, and would not form
words. But presently they came at intervals, one by one, though not
distinctly, and so low that it was not easy to hear them.

Yet Mother Veronica understood. Giovanni Severi, the man Angela had
loved, the man who had been called dead for five years--he had come
back from death--she had seen him with his brother--he had known her.

She was not going to faint again, but she sank forward, bending almost
double, her hands on the arms of the chair, her young head bowed with
woe. There was something awful in her suffering, now that she was
silent.

The Mother Superior only said three words, but her voice broke as she
pronounced the last.

'My poor child----'

Her lips were livid, but she ruled the rising storm and sat quite
still, her fingers twisted together and straining on her knee. If
Sister Giovanna had looked up, she would have wondered how mere
sympathy could be so deep and stirring. But she could not; her own
struggle was too desperate. Minutes passed before she spoke again, and
then there was a change in her, for her voice was much more steady.

'It was so easy to be good when he was dead.'

She had been happy an hour ago, yesterday, last week, working and
waiting for the blessed end, believing that he had died to serve his
country and that God would let him meet her in heaven. Why had he come
back now, too late for earth, but a lifetime too soon for heaven? It
had been so easy to be strong and brave and faithful for his sake,
when he was dead. It was little enough that she had said, but each
word had meant a page of her life. Mother Veronica heard, and she
understood.

'Pray,' she said, after a long time; and her voice came as from very
far away, for she too had told her story in that one syllable.

Human nature turned upon her, rebellious, with a rending cry.

'I cannot! He is alive! He is here! Don't you understand? How can I
pray? For what? That he may die again? God of mercy! And if not that,
can I pray to be free? Free? Free from what? Free to do wha