So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi

came back with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away,

making a retreat, and would not return till Saturday. To-day

was Wednesday.

"What shall we do now?" Peter asked of Sister Scholastica.

"There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose," said the

sister.

"Could I ask him to come?" Peter doubted.

"Certainly," said the sister. "In a case of illness, the

nearest priest will always gladly come."

So Peter despatched Gigi with a note to Monsignor Langshawe.

And presently up drove a brougham, with Gigi on the box beside

the coachman. And from the brougham descended, not Monsignor

Langshawe, but Cardinal Udeschini, followed by Emilia Manfredi.

The Cardinal gave Peter his hand, with a smile so sweet, so

benign, so sunny-bright--it was like music, Peter thought; it

was like a silent anthem.

"Monsignor Langshawe has gone to Scotland, for his holiday. I

have come in his place. Your man told me of your need," the

Cardinal explained.

"I don't know how to thank your Eminence," Peter murmured, and

conducted him to Marietta's room.

Sister Scholastica genuflected, and kissed the Cardinal's ring,

and received his Benediction. Then she and Peter withdrew, and

went into the garden.

The sister joined Emilia, and they walked backwards and

forwards together, talking. Peter sat on his rustic bench,

smoked cigarettes, and waited.

Nearly an hour passed.

At length the Cardinal came out.

Peter rose, and went forward to meet him.

The Cardinal was smiling; but about his eyes there was a

suggestive redness.

"Mr. Marchdale," he said, "your housekeeper is in great

distress of conscience touching one or two offences she feels

she has been guilty of towards you. They seem to me, in

frankness, somewhat trifling. But I cannot persuade her to

accept my view. She will not be happy till she has asked and

received your pardon for them."

"Offences towards me?" Peter wondered. "Unless excess of

patience with a very trying employer constitutes an offence,

she has been guilty of none."

"Never mind," said the Cardinal. "Her conscience accuses her

--she must satisfy it. Will you come?"

The Cardinal sat down at the head of Marietta's bed, and took

her hand.

"Now, dear," he said, with the gentleness, the tenderness, of

one speaking to a beloved child, "here is Mr. Marchdale. Tell

him what you have on your mind. He is ready to hear and to

forgive you."

Marietta fixed her eyes anxiously on Peter's face.




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