"Ah, Meesh, Meesh," he said, "what an anarchist you are, to be sure!...

Monsignor!"

"Yes, your Holiness," said the chamberlain, coming up behind.

"Take this gatto rosso back to the carriage, and keep him in

domicilio coatto until we come."

The Monsignor laughed and carried off the cat, and the Pope put his

mittened hand gently on the little speckled eggs.

"Poor things! they're warm. Listen! That's the mother bird screaming in

the tree. Hark! She's watching us, and waiting for us to go. How snugly

she thought she kept her secret."

The Capuchin drew a long breath. "Yes, nature has the same cry for fear

in all her offspring."

"True," said the Pope.

"It makes me think of that poor girl this morning."

The Pope walked back to the carriage without saying a word. As he

returned to the Vatican, the Angelus was ringing from all the church

bells of Rome, the city was bathed in crimson light, the sun was sinking

behind Monte Mario, and the stone pines on the crest of the hill,

standing out against the reddening sky, were like the roofless columns

of a ruined temple.

V

Next day Francesca came up with a letter. The porter from Trinità de'

Monti had brought it and he was waiting below for a present. In a kind

of momentary delirium Roma snatched at the envelope and emptied her

purse into the old woman's hand.

"Santo Dio!" cried Francesca, "all this for a letter?"

"Never mind, godmother," said Roma. "Give the money to the good man and

let him go."

"It's from Mr. Rossi, isn't it? Yes? I thought it was. You've only to

say three Ave Marias when you wake in the morning and you get anything

you want. I knew the Signora was dying for a letter, so...."

"Yes, yes, but the poor man is waiting, and I must get on with my work,

and...."

"Work? Ah, Signora, in paradise you won't have to waste your time

working. A lady like you will have violins and celestial bread and...."

"The man will be gone, godmother," said Roma, hustling the deaf old

woman out of the room.

But even when Roma was alone she could not at first find courage to open

the envelope. There was a certain physical thrill in handling it, in

turning it over, and in looking at the stamps and the postmark. The

stamps were French and the postmark was of Paris. That fact brought a

vague gleam of joy. Rossi had been travelling, and perhaps he had not

yet received her letter.




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