drowsiness fell upon him, till
at length, seeing that the sun had reached its zenith, he realized that
it must be noon, and began to consider the advisability of retracing his
steps.

He got to his feet, whistling to a white speck in the distance, which he
rightly judged to be Josephus, and set out on his homeward route.

* * * * *

The village appeared deserted, as he once more reached it. Doubtless the
Sunday dinner, which accounts so largely for Sunday sleepiness, was in
progress.

Coming to the small barn-like-looking building which he had noticed
earlier in the morning, and seeing that the door was open, he looked in.
The air was heavy with the scent of incense. It needed only a moment's
observation to tell him that he was in a Catholic church. A curtained
tabernacle stood on the little altar, before which hung a ruby lamp. The
building was too small to allow of two altars, but at one side was a
statue of Our Lady, the base surrounded with flowers, since it was the
month of May. Near the porch was a statue of St. Peter.

Antony looked curiously around. It was the third time only that he had
entered a Catholic church, the second time being at Teneriffe with the
Duchessa. Ordering Josephus to stay without, he walked up the little
aisle, and sat down in one of the rush-seated chairs near the sanctuary.
He hadn't a notion what prompted the impulse, but he knew that some
impulse was at work.

He looked towards the sanctuary. Mass had been said not long since, and
the chalice covered with the veil and burse was still on the altar.
Antony hadn't a notion of even the first principles of the Catholic
faith, not as much as the smallest Catholic child; but he felt here, in a
measure, the same sense of home as he knew the Duchessa to have felt in
the church at Teneriffe. Oddly enough he did not feel himself the least
an intruder. There was almost a sense of welcome.

From looking at the altar he looked at the chairs, and the small oblong
pieces of pasteboard fastened to their backs. He looked down at the piece
which denoted the owner of the chair in which he was sitting. And then he
found himself staring at it, while his heart leaped and thumped madly. On
the pasteboard four words were written,--The Duchessa di Donatello.

He gazed at the words hardly able to believe the sight of his own eyes.
What odd coincidence, what odd impulse had brought him to her very chair?
It was ex