en it," said Teresa coldly; but her cheek coloured faintly.
"It is my poor Lodovico."

She stopped and turned, and beckoned with her finger.

A figure approached them somewhat unwillingly.

When he came up, she gazed him full in the face, and he looked sheepish.

"Lodovico mio," said she, "know this young Ser, of whom I have so often
spoken to thee. Know him and love him, for he it was who saved thy wife
and child."

At these last words Lodovico, who had been bowing and grinning
artificially, suddenly changed to an expression of heartfelt gratitude,
and embraced Gerard warmly.

Yet somehow there was something in the man's original manner, and his
having followed his wife by stealth, that made Gerard uncomfortable
under this caress. However, he said, "We shall have your company, Ser
Lodovico?"

"No, signor," replied Lodovico, "I go not on that side Tiber."

"Addio, then," said Teresa significantly.

"When shall you return home, Teresa mia?"

"When I have done mine errand, Lodovico."

They pursued their way in silence. Teresa now wore a sad and almost
gloomy air.

To be brief, Appia Claudia was merciful, and did not send them over
Tiber again, but only a hundred yards down the street to Lucretia, who
kept the glove shop; she it was wanted a writer; but what for, Appia
Claudia could not conceive. Lucretia was a merry little dame, who
received them heartily enough, and told them she wanted no writer, kept
all her accounts in her head. "It was for my confessor, Father Colonna;
he is mad after them."

"I have heard of his excellency," said Teresa.

"Who has not?"

"But, good dame, he is a friar; he has made vow of poverty. I cannot let
the young man write and not be paid. He saved my child at sea.

"Did he now?" And Lucretia cast an approving look on Gerard. "Well, make
your mind easy; a Colonna never wants for money. The good father has
only to say the word, and the princes of his race will pour a thousand
crowns into his lap. And such a confessor, dame! the best in Rome. His
head is leagues and leagues away all the while; he never heeds what you
are saying. Why, I think no more of confessing my sins to him than of
telling them to that wall. Once, to try him, I confessed, along with
the rest, as how I had killed my lodger's little girl and baked her in
a pie. Well, when my voice left off confessing, he started out of his
dream, and says he, a mustering up a gloom, 'My erring sister, say three
Paternoster