A Little Protestant in Rome │ Project Gutenberg

"I LIKE that big wound wooin," said Paul Bernard, sprawling across his mother's knees in his endeavour to gaze till the last moment in which they could be seen at the mighty sunlit walls rising against the deep, pure blue of the Roman sky.

"Sit up, Paul, directly. You are hurting me. What a rude, rough little boy you are getting! And I wish you would not say wooin. You can sound your r's if you take the trouble."

Paul fell back in his seat as the carriage turned a corner and the famous ruin passed from his sight. He was in no way disturbed by his mother's fretful reproof, for he was accustomed to being alternately snubbed and idolised, and could deport himself with equanimity under either experience. He had not yet seen his fifth summer; but he was already somewhat of a philosopher, able to take things as they came, and to possess his soul in patience when it was impossible to mould circumstances to his will.

Mrs. Bernard sighed as she shook out the folds of her gown, which Paul's impetuous action had disarranged. She was young and pretty and elegantly attired, but her face wore a sad and listless expression. She spoke with a slight drawl and an intonation which betrayed her American birth.

"I suppose it is the correct thing to visit the Coliseum by moonlight," she observed; "at any rate, it is what all my compatriots appear to do."

"Yes, and it is really worth while, although everyone does it," replied her companion, a lady a few years older, whose dress indicated that she was a widow. "I advise you to choose a night when the moon is not too brilliant. One gets finer effects of light and shade, and a deeper sense of mystery pervades the vast arena, when the moon is contending with clouds than when the sky is absolutely clear."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Bernard indifferently. "Then I must try to go on some such night."

"You, my dear child!" said his mother's friend. "You will be snug in bed and fast asleep, long before your mother sets out."

"No, I sha'n't. I don't go to bed so early as you think," he protested; "and I am often awake when Janet comes to bed. I may go, mayn't I, mother?"

"You go! Nonsense! You will be much better in bed," said his mother. "Now, Paul, don't begin to worry me! I will not have it. I should like you to accompany me, Mrs. Dunton, when I go."

"With pleasure," said that lady; "I love to visit the Coliseum. To me it is one of the most sacred places on earth, and I greatly regret that the spot where so many Christian martyrs suffered is no longer marked by a cross. I should like to have known it when there were shrines there at which one could offer prayers."

"Why? Because it is no longer possible," said the lady, a little puzzled how to answer the child's abrupt question. "The Coliseum is no longer a holy place, except for its memories."

"But I thought that God was everywhere," said Paul, looking puzzled in his turn; "and that we could speak to Him in any place? I do, and He hears me too."

"Now, Paul, be quiet," said his mother. "Little boys must not talk about things they do not understand."

"There! There! That will do," said his mother, holding her neatly-gloved hand before his lips. "Not another word!"

"Yes," she said, smiling. "Most certainly I belong to the Holy Catholic Church."

Paul's brow cleared. He looked as if he had received enlightenment. He regarded the lady with an air of great interest.

"Nurse says the Catholics would burn us all if they could," he remarked cheerfully. "I'm a Protestant, you know," he added, by way of making things clear.

"My dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Dunton, and she turned towards his mother with a look of amazement.

"You see what comes of having a Scotch nurse," she added, in an undertone to her companion. "I do wish she would not put such ideas into the child's head; but she is so faithful and good that I could not bear to dismiss her. It is such a comfort to know that he is perfectly safe when out of my sight."

"Yes; but still—" Mrs. Dunton began dubiously; then checked herself, and ended in a lighter tone, as she patted the boy's cheek—"Paul will know better when he is older."

Paul gave no heed to her words, for at that moment his attention was diverted by the appearance of a little boy about his own age, clad in wonderful green velvet knickers and a bright red coat, with a tiny black "wide-awake" perched on the back of his head, who ran beside the carriage and made signs to him, which Paul failed to understand. Mrs. Dunton gave him a "soldo" to fling to the little vagrant; but, after pocketing it, the boy continued to run along the road, apparently finding pleasure in amusing the other boy with his antics.

"Have you thought over the subject of our last conversation, dear Mrs. Bernard, since we met?" asked Mrs. Dunton, with an air of intense interest.

"Oh yes, I have thought of it," said her companion wearily; "I am always thinking, thinking—if only one could stop thinking!"

"I know exactly how you feel," said Mrs. Dunton, her tones soft with sympathy; "but your thoughts will never cease to trouble you till you find rest, as I found it, in the bosom of our Holy Church."

"Ah! If I thought that!" exclaimed her friend. "If I could believe what you tell me, I would become a Romanist to-morrow. But how is it possible? Can anything undo the past? Many years ago I made a great mistake—nay, it was a sin. Is there any power on earth that can blot out that sin and make my life as if it had not been?"

"Of course the past cannot be undone; that is undeniable," said Mrs. Dunton; "but our Holy Church can absolve from sin the penitent soul. It is for that purpose we have the sacred office of the Confessional. Ah! Dear Mrs. Bernard, if you knew the relief one experiences when one unburdens one's heart in the ears of the priest, and the rest there is in giving oneself up to be taught and guided."

"Oh! But I could not!" cried Mrs. Bernard. "I could not bear to speak of my trouble to anyone!"

"Then it will continue to torment you," said Mrs. Dunton gravely. "Dear Mrs. Bernard, promise me that you will go again to the convent of the Sacré Cœur, and speak with Sister Célestine. You will find her full of sympathy, and she is better able to help you than I am."

"I will go," said Mrs. Bernard, after a moment's pause, while the placid, kindly face of the nun rose before her mental vision; "I like to talk to Sister Célestine. It would be easier to tell 'her' than to tell a priest."

"What is a pwiest, mother?" cried Paul, becoming conscious of his mother's words, as the little "contadino" he had been watching suddenly fell back breathless and was lost from view. "What is a pwiest?"

As often happened, his mother paid no attention to his query, and he repeated it, and was still repeating it when the carriage drew up before the hotel at which they were staying.

"What is a priest?" said a full sonorous voice in amused accent. "Look at me, my boy, and you will see what a priest is."

At the same moment, a pair of strong arms lifted Paul from the carriage and held him for a moment high above the ground. Paul looked down into a merry face, with kindly grey eyes, laughing lips, flashing white teeth, and a massive chin.

"Oh! Father O'Connell, is it you?" cried both the ladies in tones that expressed pleasure.

And Paul was set down on the pavement, while the priest turned to greet his mother.

Paul looked curiously at the tall figure in the long, glossy, black robe and broad hat. Father O'Connell, turning, caught his intent gaze.

"So, my little friend, you see now what a priest is," he said, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes; "tell me, do you like the look of me?"

"You don't look bad," remarked Paul gravely, "but nurse says she does not believe in priests."

The next moment a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed in black, came to the door of the hotel, and taking Paul's hand, led him quickly away.

CHAPTER II.

CLARICE BERNARD was by nature both artistic and luxurious, and an ample income made it easy for her to indulge her tastes. The only child of wealthy parents, she had been spoiled from her infancy, and, like most spoiled children, she had suffered when the arms which had so softly sheltered her were withdrawn, and she had to face alone the realities of life. That her troubles were of her own making did not render them more easy to bear. Living, to all appearance, a life of ease and pleasure, she was in truth a most unhappy woman.

A fond mother in her way, she yet found little satisfaction in her love for her child. He was a beautiful boy, with large, earnest blue eyes, before whose direct, searching gaze she sometimes shrank, inwardly feeling as if he could read the secrets of her heart.

She loved to buy Paul pretty clothes and costly toys, and to hear people speak of his beauty and charm; yet there were times when she wished that his eyes were not so deeply, purely blue, and that his fleeting expressions and unconscious gestures did not so constantly remind her of another.

"Paul is like you, and yet not like you," a lady said to her one day, as they sat together in the drawing-room at the hotel. "I fancy the difference will be more marked as he grows older. His eyes are not like yours. I suppose his father had blue eyes?"

"Yes, yes, it was so," said Mrs. Bernard hurriedly, and she turned to the piano and began to strike a few loud chords at random, as if anxious to check further speech.

The lady reflected that Mrs. Bernard must have loved her husband very much, since she could not bear even this slight reference to him.

Paul was so admired and petted at the hotel that he ran considerable danger of being spoiled, and doubtless would have suffered, but for the conscientious efforts of his Scotch nurse to counteract the mischief. She never failed to remind him in moments of elation of his natural depravity.

"Yes, the suit's all right," she would say; "it's bran' new velvet and real lace; but I'm thinking the worst part's in the middle. God keep us humble, for we've little cause to be proud, when we think what our hearts are."

"Is my heart so very bad, do you think, nurse?" Paul would ask, with an air of concern.

"It mayn't be the worst or the best," said his nurse; "but what of that? The Bible tells us that the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked."

"But you said that God would give me a new heart, if I asked Him, and I have asked Him; I am always asking Him," said Paul, with some impatience. "I should think He must have given it to me by now."

"The heart needs to be renewed every day," said his nurse gravely; "but now keep still while I fasten your collar. It is impossible for me to button it while you keep jerking your head about."

In spite of her Scotch birth, Janet found Paul difficult to deal with when he waxed argumentative. She was often both astonished and rebuked by his faith in prayer. When quite a wee boy, he had insisted on saying the Lord's Prayer in a fashion of his own, with the petition, "Give us this day our daily bread and honey and jam."

When Janet reproved him for making this addition, he replied, "But, nurse, you say that we may ask God for whatever we want. Bread alone will not do for me; I must have honey and jam."

Paul and his nurse occupied a large and airy room in the hotel, with a balcony overlooking the Piazza di Spagna. The balcony was a never-failing source of diversion to Paul. From it he could watch all the life of the Piazza—the carriages rolling to and fro, the arrivals at the hotel, the flower-sellers with the beautiful, many-hued flowers massed together on their stalls, the pedlars with the mosaics and tortoise-shells they so seldom seemed to sell, and the artists' models in their picturesque costumes. Sometimes his nurse would bring her needle-work, and sit just within the window, that she might be at hand to answer as best she could Paul's innumerable questions.

One evening about sunset, as Paul, after returning from his walk, was amusing himself in the balcony, a carriage drove up to the door of the hotel bringing a young lady, who had evidently come from a journey, since a quantity of luggage was piled up in the front of the conveyance.

She was quite young—too young, one might have thought, to be travelling alone—and very smartly dressed. Masses of red-golden hair were visible beneath her black velvet hat; her cheeks had a delicate bloom, and her eyes were large and bright, with finely-pencilled brows.

Paul looked at her and admired her with a child's ready appreciation of surface prettiness. Then his eyes were caught by the knowing-looking pug which sat on the seat beside his mistress.

Paul watched as the lady rose, and, taking up her pug, alighted with him in her arms. The wise eyes and little black nose peeped out from beneath her arms as she stood giving directions respecting her luggage.

Paul happened to be eating a biscuit, and it occurred to him to try the effect of dropping a piece down before the dog. The biscuit fell within an inch of the dog's nose, and lay on the ground before him; but he made no attempt to seize it.

"How kind you are to my dog!" she said. "I thank you for him. Yes, Fritz, you may take it."

She set down the pug as she spoke, and Paul had the satisfaction of seeing him snap up the biscuit.

"There," she said, looking up at Paul with laughing eyes, "he would not have touched it if I had not told him he might. He is a good dog, is Fritz."

"Is his name Fritz, and does he always do what you tell him?" asked Paul, delighted with this new acquaintance.

But at that moment Janet, astonished to hear her charge talking with some one below, stepped on to the balcony. She looked down, and the girl's face met her view in the full light of the clear sky. The girl nodded to Paul and went into the hotel, followed by her dog; but Janet had seen enough.

"Never mind. It's no business of yours," replied nurse, aware that she had been indiscreet in making such a remark in his hearing.

"There! There! It does not matter to you. You are not to talk about her," said his nurse.

"But the dog is good, is he not?" said Paul. "He does whatever he is told, so he must be a very good dog."

"Then you may try to be like him," said nurse. "I know a little boy who does not always do what he is told."

And Paul, aware that he had forgotten more than one injunction of his nurse's that day, became silent.

That evening, at the "table d'hôte," the appearance of the newly-arrived traveller created a sensation. She was richly dressed, and diamonds flashed on her small, white hands. Her beauty was most striking; but the ladies present eyed her with suspicion, and whispered among themselves that her complexion was certainly artificial and her hair too golden to be natural. She bore herself with great self-possession, and looked about her with cool, supercilious eyes, which seemed to defy criticism. Now and then her beautiful lips curled with a somewhat contemptuous smile.

Presently she began to talk to the gentleman on her right, and the people near her grew quiet, that they might hear what she was saying. She talked gaily and brilliantly in good and fluent French; but she had been heard to speak English with equal facility, and people began wondering as to her nationality. Was she English or American, or possibly Canadian? Was she as young as she looked, and what was the meaning of her travelling alone?

But while people observed and conjectured, they held aloof from the young stranger, and made no attempt to obtain information at first hand.

"An actress, I should say," whispered Mrs. Dunton to Mrs. Bernard, as she watched the play of hands and voice and features with which the young beauty talked.

So their eyes dwelt on the stranger with cold disapproval, while reluctantly compelled to admire the style and fit of her silk gown.

Meanwhile, the new arrival was being discussed in other regions of the hotel. A courier who chanced to be in the hall when the young lady entered, recognised her as one whom he had seen at Naples, and imparted certain facts concerning her to the porter, who in his turn told them to one of the waiters, who confided them to his wife, who was a chambermaid, and who, being able to speak English, could not resist whispering them to Paul's nurse.

Janet was shocked at this confirmation of her suspicions, yet derived some satisfaction from the thought that she had been right in her first estimate of the young woman's character.

On the following morning, Paul, equipped for a walk on the Pincio, was waiting till his nurse was ready to accompany him, when a sharp little bark reached his ears, and running into the corridor, he saw the clever pug standing at one of the doors, evidently asking that it might be opened to him. Paul was stroking him when his mistress opened the door. She smiled to see the child standing beside the dog. She was a radiant vision in a pink morning gown, and Paul was fully conscious of her charm as he looked up at her.

"Good morning, little man," she said brightly, "I am glad that you like my dog. Now, Fritz, say 'good morning' properly. See, he knows how to shake hands!"

"So he does!" exclaimed Paul, delighted with the dog's accomplishment as he shook the proffered paw. "He is a good dog. Nurse says he is better than I am, because I don't always do as I am told."

"You don't mean to say so!" said the young lady, looking amused. "And you look such a good little boy too!"

"I'm not, though," said Paul seriously. "It's awfully hard to be good, isn't it? Did you always do what you were told when you were a little girl?"

"Oh dear me, no; neither then nor since. I was always one to take my own way," said the girl.

She spoke lightly, and ended with a laugh, yet a shadow fell on her face as she spoke, and Paul was dimly aware that his words had somehow hurt her.

Just then Fritz sprang forward, barking vigorously at the hotel porter, who was coming down the corridor with his hands full of letters. Instantly the lady's face changed. There was an eager, anxious look in her eyes as she advanced to meet the man.

And she made him turn over all the letters till she was satisfied that not one bore her name. A look of pain and disappointment came to her face. She stood motionless with clasped hands as the porter went on down the corridor.

"Yes, he has learned to beg," she said; "but we must give him something to beg for."

She went into her room, and returned immediately with a pretty box of chocolates, which she gave to Paul. He showed one to Fritz, and at once the dog sat erect with his little paws drooping.

"I do," said Mademoiselle Grand. "He is the most faithful friend I have in the world."

"Will you? That is very kind," she said, with a smile; "you must tell me your name, my little friend."

"I haven't got a father—except of course the Heavenly Father," he said, "'Our Father which art in heaven,' you know. Have you a father?"

"I?" she looked startled at the question, "I! Yes. No—I mean—I have no father."

Paul looked at her with wondering eyes. It struck him as strange that she should first say "Yes" and then "No."

At that moment Janet appeared at the end of the corridor, and called to Paul in severe accents.

"There's your nurse," said the lady; "run away to her at once, like a good, wee boy." And she went into her room.

"Good sakes! If she did not say those words just like a Scotswoman!" murmured Janet. "God forbid that the poor lost soul should be from Scotland!"

"Why couldn't you stay in the room when you were dressed?" she asked of Paul. "Why need you go talking with one we have no concern with?"

"What's that? Chocolates?" Janet regarded the dainty box with displeasure in her eyes. "Give it to me."

Reluctantly Paul yielded it up. Taking the box, Paul's nurse went swiftly down the corridor and tapped at the lady's door.

"You'll excuse me, miss," she said bluntly, as the girl opened the door; "but I cannot allow my young gentleman to keep this. His mother would not approve of his receiving such a gift from a stranger."

"Oh, very well," said Mademoiselle Grand carelessly; but she coloured, and there was a bitter smile on her face as she closed the door. With a passionate gesture she flung the rejected gift out of the open window.

A number of small urchins were scrambling for the chocolates when Paul reached the Piazza. His temper was not improved by the sight.

"You are horridly cross," he said to his nurse. "Why couldn't I have the chocolates? I am sure mother would have let me keep them."

"Not if she knew who gave them," said Janet. "Now, mind, you are not to go near that lady again."

"I am sure she is not poor," said Paul. "She has such pretty frocks, and you should see how her rings sparkle. And such a dear dog. She 'can't' be poor."

"That's all you know about it," said Janet; "I tell you she is a poor, unhappy creature."

CHAPTER III.

THE last ringing note had been sounded by the band on the Pincio, and the men were gathering up their music and hurrying down from the stand; but Janet still sat knitting rapidly, and talking with an air of the deepest interest to the old Englishwoman. Marie, the little French girl with whom Paul had been playing, had gone home with her nurse; every one was going. How tiresome it was of Janet to sit there, so absorbed in her talk as to pay no attention to his very plain hints that he wanted to be moving! What stupid things grown-up people talked about! Who cared how many servants the Russian countess kept? Certainly Paul did not. A naughty idea occurred to him, and proved too delightful to be resisted. He would run away and hide. It would serve nurse right if she thought that he was lost.

Slipping behind Janet, and running across to the Moses Fountain, Paul was soon lost to sight amidst the shrubs. Looking about he found a snug hiding-place—a little nook beneath a rockery, screened by a full leafy bush. In the gathering gloom beneath the trees it was impossible that anyone could spy the tiny form ensconced there. Not many minutes had passed ere Paul heard his nurse's voice calling him. It was delightful to think how well he was hidden. He would stay where he was till Janet came quite close, and then catch hold of her gown as she passed.

"Paul! Paul! Come to me at once, Master Paul!" nurse called. "Oh yes, I know you are hiding; but it is too late now for games; we must go home at once."

Paul shook with laughing as he listened. It was such fun to think that nurse could not find him. He stretched out his right hand, ready to grab Janet's skirt as she passed, but she never came near enough for him to do that; the shrubs, growing thickly about his hiding-place, barred the way for a grown-up person. Her voice sounded further away; presently the cry of "Paul! Paul!" seemed to come from a distance; then he heard it no more.

Paul waited, feeling sure that Janet would presently return; but she did not come, and the waiting grew tedious. It is dull work hiding, if no one comes to find you. Besides, it seemed to be getting dark. Paul did not like the idea of being alone on the Pincio in the dark.

He came out of his hiding-place, scrambled through the bushes, and stood looking about him. It was not dark, but the light was failing, and he saw the moon looking down at him from the clear sky. No one was in sight. A feeling of loneliness and fear took possession of Paul's mind.

He began to cry aloud—"Janet! Janet! I'm here. Come to me quick. Janet! Janet!"

But it was now his turn to call in vain. He burst into tears, and ran forward with outstretched hands. Suddenly a sharp little bark fell on his ears, and Mademoiselle Grand's pug came bounding to meet him.

"Oh, Fritz, Fritz! I am glad to see you!" the child cried. "I'm here alone, Fritz, all alone!" And his tears flowed afresh.

Fritz did his best to comfort him. He stood on his hind legs and laid his front paws on the child's shoulders; he licked his cheeks and gave short joyous barks, as if he would say, "Never mind, it's all right now; I'm here, you know."

Then he gave a tug at the boy's tunic and bounded off, looking back, as though to bid him follow. Paul followed willingly.

The dog bounded across the deserted road and made for the furthest angle of the wall. This corner is separated from the path by wooden palings, which guard the spot whence there juts forth a fragment of the oldest Roman wall. At one point the fence had broken down. Fritz sprang through the gap, and Paul followed him.

The next moment the boy uttered a cry of fear, for, standing on the very verge of the wall, overlooking its sheer descent, and leaning forward at an angle that even the child saw to be most perilous, was Mademoiselle Grand. At the sound of the boy's cry, she started, and all but lost her balance.

But Paul seized her hand, and with tremulous haste pulled her back. "You must not stand so near the edge," he said; "it is very naughty. You might fall, and then you would be bwoken to bits, like Marie's doll when she dwopped it over the wall."

Mademoiselle Grand turned towards him a face from which every vestige of colour had fled. She was trembling from head to foot, and when she tried to laugh her voice broke, and she began to sob instead.

"Don't cwy," said Paul, forgetting his own distress in his desire to comfort her; "I daresay you did not know how naughty it was."

"Oh yes; I knew very well," she sobbed. "I knew that I was going to do a very wicked thing. Dear little Paul, I believe God must have sent you to stop me. If you had not come, I should certainly have thrown myself down."

"Then you would have been bwoken," said Paul, in the most matter-of-fact way, "your head and your neck, and I suppose your arms and legs too."

"It's horrible to think of," she said; "but, after all, it would not have mattered about my body. No one would have cared."

"Of course," said Paul. "Janet says that it makes Him sad when we do naughty things. Haven't you any father and mother to be sowwhy too?"

"My mother died when I was younger than you, Paul," said Mademoiselle Grand in a low, sad tone. "My father—"

Still, the young lady did not speak. She was gazing away into the distance, as if she saw something that Paul could not see. Looking up at her pale, sad face, outlined against the clear evening sky, the child was dimly aware that it was very beautiful. Suddenly she seemed to become conscious of his presence again. She turned, and seating herself on a low bank of earth, drew Paul towards her. As she put her arm about him, the child could feel how it trembled.

"My father, Paul," she said, "is a good man; but stern and hard. It is always the good people who find it most hard to forgive evil in others. He loved me in his way, and he did much for me; he was proud of me till—I was a bad daughter, Paul. I ran away from him. I know I have broken his heart. He will never forgive me."

"Oh yes, he will," said Paul, confidently. "If you go home and tell him that you are sorry, he will forgive you; fathers always do. There was the pwodigal son, you know. His father came to meet him with his arms stretched out wide. I've seen the picture of it."

"Well, I'm a prodigal daughter, so it's a similar case," she said bitterly; "but I don't think I dare go home. Yet, what will become of me?" She broke off abruptly, and her tears gathered afresh.

"I should go home if I were you," said Paul. "Depend upon it, your father will come to meet you. And if he seemed angry, you could tell him you would be one of his servants."

"My father does not keep many servants," said Mademoiselle Grand, with a sad smile. "Ah! How sick I grew of my quiet Highland home, and now I weary to see it again, though I know the sight of it would break my heart! Would to God I had never left it! Well, Fritz, what now?"

For all the time she was speaking, Fritz was nestling close to her, licking her hands and cheek, and striving by every means that dog can employ to show his love for her.

"How fond of you Fritz is!" said Paul. "What would he have done if you had fallen off the wall?"

"He would have sprung after me," said Mademoiselle Grand. "He has too true a heart to live on, if I were dead. Dogs are more faithful than men."

"Poor dear Fritz," said Paul, fondling him. "I'm glad you did not fall. But now, please—" there was a sudden break in his voice—"you take me home? I'm lost, you know, and nurse is looking for me. And I am so dreadfully hungry."

Mademoiselle Grand rose quickly, and taking the little boy's hand led him homewards. Up to this moment she had been too absorbed in herself to wonder at his being there alone. At the gate they met Janet, looking like one distracted. She had been to the hotel, to see if Paul had found his way back alone. Great was her relief on seeing him with Mademoiselle Grand; but she gave but scant thanks to the young lady for her care of him.

"Good-bye," said Paul, as he shook hands with her, "you won't go back to the wall, will you?"

"I? Oh no!" said Mademoiselle Grand, with a nervous laugh. "See, they are closing the gate. Good-bye, my little friend; I shall not forget what you have said."

"What did you say to her?" asked Janet curiously, as they walked away. "And what did you mean about the wall?"

"I thought she might walk too near and fall over, you know," said Paul. "It was a pity you did not go on looking for me, Janet, I was in such a lovely hiding-place."

"It was very naughty of you to go away and hide, when it was time to go home," said his nurse; but she was too thankful to have found him to be hard upon him.

Meanwhile, Mademoiselle Grand had paused outside the gates of the Pincio, and stood beneath the ilexes, gazing across the house-tops to the dome of St. Peter's, looming dark against the grey sky. In all the wide city there was perhaps no more desolate and despairful creature than this young girl, so beautiful and so exquisitely dressed. She had bartered all that a woman holds most dear for what had proved a worthless exchange. She had sinned, and bitter was her repentance.

This evening she had meant to end her life, but God had stayed her by the hand of a little child, and by that child, it seemed to her, that He had spoken to her. She would go home, she who had sinned against her father and her God. It might be that there was forgiveness for her with both; but for that she dared not hope.

CHAPTER IV.

"MADEMOISELLE GRAND has gone away," said Janet the next morning, as she was brushing Paul's hair.

"Has she? Gone already!" exclaimed Paul. "And Fritz too! Oh, I am sorry! I did want to say good-bye to them before they went."

"She left the hotel at seven o'clock," said his nurse. "Did you know she was going away?"

"Yes, and I'm glad she has gone, though I wish I had said good-bye to her," said Paul. "Nurse, how is it that I haven't got a father? All other children have."

"You are mistaken, Master Paul. There are many poor little children whose fathers are dead."

Janet made no reply, but pursed up her lips as if she never meant to open them again. When Paul persisted in putting his question she told him to be quiet, and not to worry her. But Paul's desire to obtain information was not to be quenched by a single rebuff. When Janet refused to answer him, he said to himself that she did not know. He waited till later in the day, when he was alone with his mother in her room, and then put the question to her.

"Is my father dead?" he asked, looking up into his mother's face with his open, appealing gaze.

She started nervously as he spoke. "What do you mean, Paul? What makes you ask me that?"

"People are always asking me," he said. "That lady in the green frock asked me yesterday, and when I said that I had never had a father, she laughed, and said I 'must' have had one; but if I did not know anything about him, she supposed he was dead. Is he dead, mother?"

Mrs. Bernard opened her lips to speak hastily, but as she met her boy's earnest, innocent eyes, she paused. She could not speak falsely to Paul.

"Perhaps," she said faintly. He little knew how he pierced her heart by the question. "But I cannot talk about it, Paul, nor must you."

"Why not?" he protested. "I want to hear about my father. I am so glad that I have one. Marie's father gives her chocolates and carries her on his shoulder. When shall I see him, mother?"

"I cannot tell, Paul. Now, you are not to talk any more; you make my head ache. Run away to Janet; I am going out."

Mrs. Bernard's hands trembled as she arranged before her mirror the large velvet picture hat which set off her beauty so admirably. It seemed to her that her face had suddenly grown white and haggard. Paul saw no change in it, however.

"You do look so pretty in that hat, mother," he said. "Where are you going? Do take me with you."

She responded by taking him into her arms and kissing him passionately. There was a tear glistening on Paul's cheek when she released him from her embrace. She was going where the presence of a child might prove inconvenient, but she could not refuse to take him, and it would be a gratification to her motherly pride to show Sister Célestine her lovely boy.

So Paul went with his mother to the convent of the Sacré Cœur. He was greatly impressed by Sister Célestine in her flowing white veil and long robe of turquoise blue. He felt the charm, too, of her sweet, gentle voice and kindly eyes. She understood children, and Paul was perfectly good and happy in her company. When she wished to talk quietly with his mother, she called one of the novices, and bade her take Paul to see the pretty black and white kitten, a true Dominican, which had been sent to the convent from the monastery of St. Sabina. Paul thoroughly enjoyed playing with the kitten, and did not like leaving her, when the summons came for him to rejoin his mother.

Mrs. Bernard had a grave and harassed look as she quitted the convent. She stood in doubt as Paul sprang into the carriage which awaited them at the door of the church.

"Very well," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "we will go to the Villa Mattei; it is open this afternoon."

Paul chattered eagerly as they went along; but she only half heard what he was saying. She was thinking of the strong, earnest words of the nun. Would she be happier if she joined the Roman Church? Would she find relief in the office of the Confessional? Would the weight of bitter remorse that lay upon her heart be lifted off it? One thing was clear to her. If she became a Roman Catholic, she would raise a last barrier between herself and her husband. He was an Englishman and a Protestant. She knew the light in which he regarded the Roman Catholic Church. If she should join it, her doing so would appear to him a fresh act of defiance. As this thought struck her, Mrs. Bernard looked at her boy and shivered.

"He would certainly take Paul from me if I became a Roman Catholic," she said to herself.

It was a strange destiny which had bound the life of a man like John Bernard, of Huguenot ancestry, serious, earnest, with strong principles, inflexible pride, and a will of iron, to a self-willed, spoiled, frivolous girl, such as Clarice had been when she married him. She had fascinated him so completely in the days of their courtship that she, not unnaturally, expected to dominate him as a wife. She was astounded when, gently but firmly, he made known his intention of having his own way in certain matters pertaining to their mutual life.

She refused to surrender her will, and their life became one of perpetual discord. Clarice had so little understood her husband that it had seemed to her that if she persisted in her defiance, she must conquer in the end. Finally, in passionate resentment of a wish he had thwarted, she had fled from his home, taking with her their infant son, and settled herself with friends at a distance. She had never doubted that John would seek her in haste, and implore her to return to him.

He had acted quite otherwise. He took her flight to signify that she thought it better they should live apart for the future. To her sore mortification, he never even asked her to return to him, but sent his solicitor, to explain to her the terms on which he proposed they should for the future lead separate lives. They were terms to which she could take no exception. Her husband left her free to spend as she would the whole of the handsome fortune she had inherited from her parents, and she was permitted to have the guardianship of her child until he was seven years of age.

Clarke was not the woman to humble herself and ask forgiveness. In her way she was as proud as her husband, and she accepted his terms without a demur. She bade the solicitor tell him that she meant to quit England, where she had known no happiness, and return to America. There she had many friends, and might yet find life worth living.

But in her heart Clarice knew that there was for her no joy in life from henceforth. In spite of her perversity, she loved her husband, and she mourned bitterly over the wreck of the happiness which had seemed so sure on their wedding day. At first she resented passionately what she chose to regard as her husband's harshness; but there came to her the conviction that she had been most to blame.

"Every wise woman buildeth her house," said Solomon; "but the foolish plucketh it down with her own hands." Clarice had committed that supreme act of folly, and now she suffered the anguish of a hopeless remorse. Her very love for her boy became a torture to her. She could not rejoice in his beauty and growth, for sickening dread of the hour when he should be taken from her. "Oh! For power to undo the past!" was the daily cry of her heart.

Mrs. Bernard returned to Boston, her native place, and lived there a life which was outwardly pleasant enough; but the ache of regret, the sore craving for the love she had forsaken, never ceased. Only in constant diversion and change could she find relief. It was this necessity which, after four years passed in America, had brought her again to Europe. In all that time no word or sign from her husband had reached her. He had not even sought to see his child. He might be dead, for aught she knew.

Paul and his mother alighted from the carriage at the entrance to the Villa Mattei. The gardens were delightful on that April afternoon. Beneath the warm sunshine the tall box hedges gave forth their subtle perfume. It was pleasant to walk beneath the shade of the old, gnarled ilexes, and Paul was charmed with the quaint and somewhat mutilated statues and antique bits of carving which lined the way.

Presently they found a seat which commanded a lovely view of the Campagna. Orange and lemon trees, laden with golden fruit, grew near, and bees were buzzing to and fro and rifling the flowers of their honey.

"What will Janet do without you this afternoon, I wonder?" said Mrs. Bernard, as she patted his curly head.

"Oh, she will be all right," said Paul indifferently. "She will be able to talk to that old woman on the Pincio as much as she likes."

"I do not suppose she will go on the Pincio alone," said his mother; "she is most likely sitting in her room sewing for you. I don't know what you would do without Janet."

"No," said Paul gravely. "She is very good; but, mother, I like best to be with you. I should like to be with you always. I would never wun away from you; never!"

"I should hope not, my darling," said his mother, rather tremulously. "Why should you run away from me?"

"Some people do," said Paul, with the old man air of wisdom he sometimes wore. "I have heard of people running away from their fathers and mothers; but I never will, mother, not when I am grown-up ever so tall."

"I am sure you would not," said his mother; "but suppose, Paul—suppose some one should try to take you away from me?"

"I would not let them!" cried Paul. "I would fight them!" And doubling up his tiny fists, he began to strike out at an imaginary foe.

"But if they should tell you, Paul, that your mother was a naughty woman," said Mrs. Bernard slowly; "if they should tell you, you would be better away from her?"

"I should tell them it was a wicked story," said Paul stoutly. "You are not a naughty woman, mother."

"I am afraid I am, Paul," said his mother sadly. "Yes, it is true; I have been very, very naughty."

"Have you, mother?" exclaimed Paul, his blue eyes opening wide in astonishment. "But you are sorry now, aren't you?"

"Sorry!" cried his mother, her voice breaking with a sob. "I am more sorry than I can tell you, Paul!"

"When I have been naughty," said Paul, "I tell Janet that I am sorry, and she forgives me. And when I say my prayers, I tell God that I am sorry, and He forgives me. You will tell God that you are sorry, won't you, mother?"

He was silent for a few moments, while his little face wore a look of serious reflection.

"I don't know," he said presently, "whether there is anyone else to whom you ought to say that you are sorry."

His mother thought that she knew; but she said nothing. She bent over Paul and kissed him again and again. "You love me, Paul?" she said; "promise me that you will always love me."

"Of course," he said calmly. Once more his little face was grave with thought for a few seconds ere he said: "I've been thinking, mother, what a good thing it is that God sent me into the world, for I shall always be able to take care of you. When I am a big man, and you are a little, old woman—you will be old then, you know—I shall give you my arm and lead you along, as M. Roget leads his old mother."

Mrs. Bernard laughed at the strange vision of the future presented by her son; but there were tears in her eyes. A lizard darted across the path, and Paul ran off in pursuit of it. She was left to her own thoughts. Was it all as simple as her child had said, she asked herself? Had she but to seek forgiveness and to receive it? Was there no need of the intervention of a priest, no virtue in the priestly absolution of which she had heard so much? Was God indeed so ready to forgive?

Like a swift response to the question, a voice within her mind seemed to utter words, familiar once, yet never heeded before:

"If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."

CHAPTER V.

MRS. BERNARD went no more to the convent of the Sacré Cœur. The spell that drew her thither was broken; the gorgeous Roman rites and ceremonies had lost their fascination for her. She felt that she needed that which was at once greater and simpler. She wanted to know that she was forgiven, and the sin of the past blotted out; but she could no longer believe that any earthly priest had power to pronounce her forgiveness, or to make her peace with God.

She was restless and unhappy, and her friends found her moods unaccountable. She talked of leaving Rome, but could not make up her mind where to go. All places were alike distasteful to her. Even while she listened to the most favourable descriptions of places she had not visited, her heart sickened within her. She knew that she would feel heart-sore and weary wherever she went. It is not in the power of beautiful scenery, or the most perfect climate, or the gayest spectacles, to minister to a mind diseased. She was tired of wandering to and fro; her heart craved rest and home; but these were blessings she could never hope for more.

Then she sought relief in the fulfilment of duty. It struck her that she had not sufficiently realised her responsibility as a mother. She would devote herself to teaching and training her boy. Paul was not yet five; it was early to begin regular lessons, but in two years he might be taken from her, and she would no longer be able to do anything for him. Well, her husband should see that she had done her best for their child. Hitherto Janet alone had instructed Paul. She had taken pains to teach him his alphabet, and he was even beginning to read tiny words and to form his "o's" and "pothooks" in a funny quavering hand.

Paul was delighted when his mother became his teacher. She was astonished at the quickness with which he learned. "He will be a clever man," she said to herself, with a throb of mingled pride and pain. Then followed the thought—

At that moment Clarice Bernard realised how much her husband was missing, how much he had lost of the joy of watching the development of this beautiful child. She no longer thought of her husband as a hard-hearted tyrant. She knew him capable of loving Paul with a love as deep and strong as her own, and there came to her a new sense of the wrong she had done him when she quitted his home. She breathed a heavy sigh, as she thought of "what might have been."

"I do not like you to be unhappy," Paul said, almost with impatience. Children naturally shrink from those who are sad and melancholy, and there was not a more sensitive little mortal in the world than Paul. His mother's sigh checked for a moment his exuberant gladness, and cast a shadow on his loving little heart.

That evening Mrs. Bernard sent Janet out to make some purchases, and she herself put her boy to bed. As Paul knelt at her knee to say his evening prayer, his upturned face and curly head, emerging from the white-frilled nightgown, had the beauty and sweetness of one of the cherub heads which the old painters loved to depict.

he repeated. At the close of the familiar lines, he offered a few petitions of his own.

"Please God, bless my mother, and make her not to be unhappy any more. And bless Janet, and please may she not hurt me so much when she combs my hair. And bless Orlando, and the lame boy who sells matches, and Marie and M. Roget, and—" There was a pause. Paul had opened his eyes, and those large blue orbs were looking with their deep earnest gaze into his mother's.

For a moment she could not speak; then she said, with breathless haste, "Yes, yes, surely, Paul; it is right that a little boy should pray for his father."

"God bless my father," he said, "and make him a good man, and please let me see him very, very soon."

Mrs. Bernard's bosom heaved with a sigh as she heard him; she could not say "Amen" to her child's prayer.

From that time Paul prayed for his father every day. It was wonderful to him that Janet made no comment on the new petition he had added to his prayers; but his nurse had the wisdom of the Scotch, and knew the things that are best passed over in silence. Janet had travelled far and wide, and it was in America that Mrs. Bernard had met with her. When she entered that lady's service, she learned that Mrs. Bernard's husband was living; but she had never allowed the other servants to gossip with her about the separation, for she considered it beneath her dignity to pry into facts which her mistress chose to conceal from her. Therefore, though she wondered greatly what had led Paul to pray thus, she refrained from questioning him, and he, on his part, maintained a reticence on the subject, which was remarkable in so young a child.

One afternoon Paul was in the drawing-room of the hotel, when his mother and Mrs. Dunton and Father O'Connell were taking tea. Paul, seated on a rug amusing himself with a large piece of cake, and a book full of pictures which he had found on one of the tables, for a while paid no heed to the talk which was going on; but when he had exhausted alike the cake and the pictures, he turned to the ladies for amusement.

Mrs. Dunton was speaking with the utmost seriousness. "I have a black lace mantilla, which will be just the thing," she said; "it is beautiful Spanish lace, and will look well with my black silk gown."

"And will be most becoming," said Father O'Connell; "I love to see ladies with their heads draped in black lace."

"Your new black silk is really too good to wear in such a crowd as there will be," said Mrs. Bernard.

"Oh no!" said Mrs. Dunton, decidedly. "Nothing is too good to wear when one goes to see the Holy Father."

Paul's blue eyes opened wide in astonishment as he looked at her. Was it really true that she was going to see the "Holy Father"?—"Our Father which art in heaven!"

He could not believe that he had heard aright. He crawled to the lady's feet, and asked eagerly, "Who are you going to see, Mrs. Dunton?"

She was so interested in discussing the details of her dress on the occasion that she paid no heed to the child's question. He had to repeat it more than once, and even to tug at her gown, ere he could attract her attention.

"Who are you going to see when you wear your black silk and that lace thing on your head?" he demanded.

She uttered the words as if she expected Paul to be impressed by them, and so indeed he was. "The Holy Father!" he said in an awe-struck tone. "Why, I did not think that anyone 'could' see him."

"It is not easy to do so, my dear boy; it is only possible now and then," said Mrs. Dunton earnestly. "It has been my desire for years to see him, and now I hope to do so on Sunday. Oh, I cannot tell you how glad I am!"

"Oh, do take me with you!" Paul cried eagerly. "I do want to see the Holy Father so much."

"My dear boy, I could not possibly take you into such a crowd," said his mother. "There will be no room for little boys, I assure you."

"Oh no, I shall not speak to him," replied his mother, with a laugh, which struck curiously on Paul's ear. "It will be honour and glory enough to look upon him."

"But I can speak to him without seeing him," the child added, "so I would not so much mind if I did not speak to him when I saw him."

"To St. Peter's," said his mother. "The Holy Father lives close by there—in the Vatican, you know."

And as he recalled his childish vision of the vast basilica, with its shining marbles and huge statues, the gold embossed ceilings so far above his little head, the wonder of the dome, and the glittering lights about the high altar, it was not difficult for him to believe that the Great Father might be seen there.

"Beautiful!" cried Father O'Connell. "I should rather say it was. Some of the most beautiful things in the world are to be seen there. You should take him to see the sculptures," he added, with a glance at Mrs. Bernard.

"It's the Holy Father I want to see," said Paul. "Oh, do take me, mother, do take me!"

"My dear Paul, you are asking for what is quite impossible, so it is of no use for you to say another word about it," said his mother.

"I tell you what, Paul," said Mrs. Dunton, touched by the child's strong desire to see the Pope, "I am going to the Vatican directly to see Monsignore Nero, and, if you like, I will take you with me."

"Well, no, I am afraid I cannot promise you that," said Mrs. Dunton, with a smile; "but at least you will see something of the palace where he lives."

So within half an hour, Paul, looking highly delighted, drove away with Mrs. Dunton to the Vatican.

CHAPTER VI.

ALIGHTING from her carriage at the great bronze door of the Vatican, Mrs. Dunton led Paul into the broad corridor and up the wide staircase to the right. The boy's eyes surveyed with delight the Pope's Swiss guard in their picturesque parti-coloured uniform, stationed within the entrance. He began to ask questions eagerly in his high clear tones, to which Mrs. Dunton replied in a voice discreetly lowered, till, as they ascended the stone steps, the solemn, decorous atmosphere of the place affected even Paul, and he, too, became quiet, though nothing escaped his eager eyes.

Mrs. Dunton ascended to the second floor, and, entering a small office on the right, spoke in Italian to the sedate, demure official in suit of glossy broadcloth and white cravat, who advanced with noiseless tread to meet her. She gave him her card, and he ushered her into a small sitting-room to wait while he carried it to Monsignore Nero.

The room was furnished in a plain though substantial style and lighted from above. There was little in it to please Paul's eyes, and he grew weary of sitting still, as many minutes went by and the monsignore did not appear. He got down from his chair, and began to move restlessly about the room. Absorbed in her own thoughts, Mrs. Dunton left him to himself.

At last, the door opened and there entered a tall, large man with handsome features and dark eyes. In a soft, deep voice, with charming kindliness, he welcomed Mrs. Dunton, patted Paul on the head and called him "a fine little fellow;" then sank into a chair beside the lady, who was soon engaged in earnest talk with him.

Paul felt himself out of it, and decidedly bored. The door into the outer room stood open. There was the sound of voices and the stir of life outside. He wanted to see more of the strange, vast building in which he found himself, so, taking advantage of Mrs. Dunton's pre-occupation, he slipped out of the room, and crossing the next, came on to the open court which was at the top of the staircase.

Two Carabineers in their smart uniform stood on guard at the entrance to the court, but it chanced that their attention was at that moment engaged by an official of the Vatican, with whom they were in close consultation. The little boy slipped behind one of them, and ran across the courtyard and out by an exit on the other side, without attracting the attention of any of the three. Delighted with his freedom, he sped on along the passage in which he found himself, turned to the right, crossed another court, and came into a road at the back of St. Peter's, near the entrance to the Sculpture Gallery, where there were several carriages drawn up. A group of students in long black gowns with red sashes stood by the door. They were talking earnestly, and Paul slipped by them without attracting any special attention. He found himself beside a large iron gate which stood a little way open. Beyond he saw a broad gravel terrace, with tall trees and masses of bright flowers in the distance.

In a moment Paul was through the gate and running along the terrace. Instinct told him that he was on forbidden ground. These must be the beautiful old gardens of the Vatican, of which he had heard people speak. Well, here he was, and he would see all he could while he had the chance.

Paul was conscious of a strong and delicious perfume, as he ran along the terrace. It came from the orange and lemon trees planted against the walls, and covered with a wealth of white blossoms, enough to provide wreaths for all the brides of Christendom. Paul sniffed their fragrance with rapture as he hurried on, anxious to see as much as possible ere he was reprimanded and borne away, as he fully expected to be.

The sound of falling water reached his ears. He turned to the right, and saw a tiny cascade falling over stones, fringed with maiden-hair fern. He paused for a few moments to gaze at this, then went on, being now out of sight of the gate, and found fresh wonders and delights at every turn. There were roses in abundance, and of every species, from the tiny Banksia, trained over arbours and trellises, to the large thick cabbage roses and the exquisite pale yellow Maréchal Niel.

But, though he loved flowers, Paul presently came on what interested him more. Within a large fenced enclosure was a collection of curious animals—ostriches with their tall, swift limbs, and long awkward necks; a pelican, with its extraordinary bill; a few goats and deer; and a couple of sheep of a peculiar breed. Paul stood as if glued to the wire fence which enclosed these creatures. He started as a voice addressing him in Italian said:—

Paul looked round, and saw an elderly man, wearing a grey suit of clothes and a broad straw hat, who was regarding him with an amused and benevolent expression.

"I do not know what you say," said Paul, looking up into the stranger's face with his open, fearless expression; "I am an English boy; I cannot speak Italian, except just a word or two, you know."

"Ah! He is an English boy," said the man, speaking Paul's native tongue in a way that the child thought rather funny; "I can speak the English, but it is not much. I have been to England. They know how to make the garden in England."

"Yes; but Janet says the Scotch are the best gardeners," said Paul. "She says a Scotch gardener would be ashamed to let the gardens get so untidy as they do in Italy."

"Ah! It is true; the Scotch does know how to gardener," replied the stranger, "and they does think that they does know better than everybody else. But how comes the little English boy into my garden?"

"So it is, but I—I am the Pope's head of the gardeners," said the stranger with an air of importance, which was not lost upon Paul.

"Are you angry with me because I am here?" he asked. "I have not touched any of the flowers, indeed. I came with Mrs. Dunton to see Monsignore Nero, you know."

"Come with me, then," said the gardener. And he led Paul to another part of the garden where stood a large cage containing parrots of splendid plumage—green, red, and yellow.

Paul was charmed to watch these, and to hear them say, "'Buon giorno'" in hoarse, inward tones.

So far from being angry, his new friend seemed to take pleasure in showing him everything that was likely to please him, and as they went along, he picked roses and other flowers for Paul. They came to a splendid fountain sparkling in the sunshine, and filling almost to overflowing a large deep basin. A little farther on was an entrance into a lovely miniature wood. Wild flowers grew there in abundance, a fountain gleamed prettily in the distance, and an antique statue was visible amid the trees.

Paul looked wistfully into the wood and longed to explore it; but it had just occurred to him that Mrs. Dunton's talk with the monsignore must be over by now, and she was probably looking for him.

"I should like to pick some of those bluebells," he said; "but I expect I ought to go back to Mrs. Dunton."

"You do better to stay here," said the gardener, thinking that the monsignore and the lady were somewhere in the grounds; "they are sure to come here presently. If you go one way, they may go another, and you miss."

This advice accorded so well with Paul's inclination that he thought it excellent. The little wood was bounded on this side by a tall, thick hedge of box, which gave forth a sweet, subtle fragrance beneath the slanting rays of the sun. On the other side of the hedge was a broad, gravelled path. The gardener glanced down it as he spoke, and saw a little group of persons at the farther end.

Paul looked in the direction indicated; but there was no lady amongst the persons advancing, all black-robed, save for a tall, slight form in the centre, which was clad in white.

"No, indeed," said the gardener; "I see now that it is the Holy Father who comes."

"The Holy Father!" exclaimed Paul, in an awe-struck tone. "Oh! Shall I see him? 'May' I see him?"

"I don't know," said the gardener, looking grave. "The Holy Father may not like to see a little English boy in his garden; but stay—I know how. You shall stand in the wood, and the holes in the hedge are many through which you can see. Quick—here."

He led Paul within the wood, and soon found a hole through which the little boy could look upon the path, while keeping himself out of sight.

"You stand there and keep always quiet," he said, "and you will see, and no one see you."

The gardener looked puzzled, but with a gesture, he enjoined Paul to keep silence, and, stepping back into the path, went forward to meet those who were advancing.

Paul's heart was beating fast, and the breath came quickly through his parted lips. "Adam and Eve hid themselves when He walked in the garden in the cool of the day," he said to himself, and he trembled at once with joy and fear.

Five persons were approaching, but Paul saw but one. His eyes were riveted on the slight, gaunt, yet dignified form, clothed in a long white habit, which advanced with slow, feeble steps leaning on a stick. It was that of an old man, with silvery hair showing beneath his small, close-fitting cap. His face, with its strongly-marked features, keen, piercing glance, and complexion of the colour of old ivory, impressed the child deeply, but was not what he had expected to see, if, indeed, he could have given form and colour to his vague anticipation.

He watched as the gardener went forward, and with deep reverence saluted the aged personage. He saw the deeply-lined face break into a broad smile—he heard questions and answers exchanged, but not a word could he understand. He noted that certain words, uttered by the venerable centre of the group, in a voice that was clear and strong, though a trifle tremulous, caused smiles and even a ripple of laughter to pass among his companions. Then the little party moved on, and presently the gardener came back to Paul.

"No," said Paul, in a tone of disappointment; "I saw that old man in white; but he was not the Holy Father."

"But he was," he replied. "Do you mean for to tell me that I know not the Pope?"

"Oh, the Pope!" said Paul. "Was he the Pope? But I thought I should see God—'our Father in heaven,' you know."

"God!" repeated the gardener, in a startled tone. "How could you expect to see God, my dear little boy? No one can see Him."

"But Holy is His Name," said the child; "and He used to walk in the garden where Adam and Eve lived."

"Ah! But that was in Eden, and a long while ago," said the man, with a smile. "No mortal can look upon the face of God. The Pope is His Vicar; that means, you know, that he stands in His place. People look on him instead of on God, and he acts in the name of God—so at least the priests say; but I don't know myself."

"How can he?" said Paul, with a perplexed and even troubled expression on his guileless face. "Why, it was Jesus who came to show us what God is like. I know, for nurse has told me. Ah! And I remember she said that the Roman Catholics put the Pope and the Virgin Mary in the place of Christ."

The gardener looked on him in wonder. "So you are a Protestant, my little gentleman?" he said.

"Yes, certainly I am a Protestant," said Paul, unconsciously straightening his tiny form as he spoke. "Will you tell the Pope, and will he have me burned?"

He asked the question eagerly, and without the least appearance of fear. His imagination had grasped the idea of the glory of martyrdom without taking account of its pains.

"No, no," he said, as soon as he could speak. "We do not burn Protestants in Rome to-day. We will not give that baby face and those pretty curls to the flames. But what an innocent it is! And what is Monsignore Nero about, that he lets such a little Protestant run wild in the gardens of the Vatican?"

"I don't think he knows I am here," said Paul. "He and Mrs. Dunton were talking hard in the little parlour, and I slipped away. I expect she thinks me naughty."

"What! You came into these gardens alone? I never heard of such a thing. Come, come, we must go and find this lady."

So saying, the gardener took hold of Paul's hand, and marched him off to the entrance, which was at no great distance. They had not gone many steps from the great gate when they encountered Mrs. Dunton and Monsignore Nero, the lady looking flushed and distressed, but the ecclesiastic serene as usual.

"Oh, Paul, where have you been?" cried Mrs. Dunton. "We have been searching for you everywhere."

"No, he is not," said Paul stoutly. "God is the Holy Father, and I thought I should see Him."

For a moment all were silent from astonishment, as they looked into the child's uplifted face, so serious and so sweet.

A change passed over the face of the monsignore. He laid his hand tenderly on the child's golden head, and said, in his full, deep tones, "That vision, too, may be yours some day, little Paul, since it is written that the pure in heart shall see Him."

CHAPTER VII.

JANET could not make it out. A letter had just been given to her, addressed to "Master Paul Bernard, the Hotel Londra, Rome," and she saw to her surprise that it came from Scotland. It bore, indeed, the postmark of a little Highland town which Janet had known in her youth. She could almost fancy that she smelt the heather and felt the strong, keen air of the moorland district from which it had come. Who could have written from thence to her young charge?

"I never knew that they had friends in Scotland," she thought; "perhaps it is from one of those children with whom he got so friendly on the steamer coming over. But how could they know that he was at the Hotel Londra?"

The puzzle increased as she studied the letter. The writing was not that of a child. It was a free, flowing hand with a certain audacity in the way the capitals were formed. She could appease her curiosity only by giving the letter to its owner. Janet hurried along the corridor towards the room where Paul was at play.

"See what the postman has brought for you, Master Paul," she said; "a letter, all your very own."

"To be sure—here it is—'Master Paul Bernard,' big enough for you to read," said Janet, "and it comes all the way from Scotland—from the Highlands."

"Then I know who it's from," said Paul, in clear, ringing tones; "it's from Mademoiselle Grand."

"Why, what makes you think that?" asked Janet, and she felt doubtful whether she ought to let him have the letter.

Paul, however, had already seized the letter, and was trying to open it. He would not let Janet help him. It was the first real letter he had ever received, and he was determined to open it himself. At last, he accomplished it, with the help of Janet's scissors; but, though his correspondent had written as plainly as possible, to read it was beyond his power. He had to ask Janet to read it to him.

   "MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND, PAUL,—I have thought of you so often since I came home, that I feel that I must write and tell you what a little God-sent messenger you were when you told me to go to my father. For I am at home once more, filling the child's place in the house of the best of fathers, and I should be happy, could I ever forget how little I deserve such love, and how I have sinned against it.

   "'Fathers always forgive,' you said, and truly I found my father ready to forgive. He was aged, enfeebled, sorrowful, as the result of my sin; but he was waiting for me with open arms, watching and praying for my return, 'going to meet me' in his heart.

   "I could not believe in such forgiveness; but the Father in heaven revealed it to you, little Paul. And His love is beyond and above all. He watches with yearning heart for the return of His prodigal children, and welcomes them with a love which makes them know and feel their sin as nothing else can. You taught me that truth, dear Paul, and I hope and pray that you will live to teach it to many another poor wanderer. I can think of no better way for a man to spend his life than in seeking the Father's lost children in the far country, and telling them of the love that waits to welcome them. May God bless you, dear boy, and all belonging to you, and make you a blessing to many, as you have been to—

"Your loving friend,

"ISABEL GRAND.

   "P.S.—Fritz is sitting by my side and watching me as I write. If I could make him understand to whom I am writing, he would bark his good wishes, I know."

"Fritz barking his good wishes!" cried Paul, with a merry laugh. "I'd like to hear him. I'm glad she got home safe. Of course I knew her father would run to meet her. Is it far to the Highlands, nurse?"

But Janet did not answer. Her voice had grown hoarse and her lips tremulous as she read the letter. She turned aside, that Paul might not see her tears.

He, that little child, had led her to go home—home to her earthly father, home to her God; and she, who for so many years had called herself by the name of Christ, had had no word of love, or pity, no Gospel message for this poor sinner!

"May God forgive me," Janet said to herself, "that I looked on that poor wanderer with the eyes of a Pharisee, and forgot how my Lord welcomed such an one, and sent her away in peace! I, to whom He has forgiven so much, to despise another sinner—and she from bonnie Scotland, too!"

"You must keep this letter, Paul," she said. "It will mean more to you when you are older than it does to-day."

"I wish I could write an answer," said Paul. "I should like to send some kisses to Fritz."

CHAPTER VIII.

"SO this is the Protestant Cemetery," said Paul, as, holding his nurse's hand, and somewhat awed by the solemnity of her manner, he stepped within the great gateway.

The vague fear which had crept into his mind vanished as he looked about him. Masses of red and white and mauve azaleas were blooming in pots on either side the entrance; roses of almost every variety grew amid the tombstones, and though the violets were over, their abundant leaves made green coverings for the graves. The tall, dark green spires of the cypresses rose beautifully against a sky of perfect blue; bees were buzzing and butterflies flitting among the flowers; it was a place to make one in love with death. Yet it was not of death, but of life that everything testified on that lovely afternoon.

"I like this place," said Paul, breaking away from his nurse in his eagerness to explore it. "Shall I be buried here when I die?"

"I hope not," said Janet, with a sudden sense of pain; "but who can say? Only God knows when or where or how any of us will die."

"Why do you hope not?" asked the child. "I think I should like to be buried here. It's so nice and warm in the sun, and the flowers smell so sweet. And how the birds do sing! Does God send them here to sing to the people in their graves?"

"Why, no, Master Paul; there's no hearing or seeing or smelling in the grave. There are no people there, indeed, only their worn-out bodies. Their souls, their real selves, you know, are with Jesus in heaven."

"Oh!" said Paul, wonderingly. "With Jesus in heaven! How do they get there after they are put in the ground?"

But Janet had passed on, intent upon finding Shelley's grave, and paid no heed to his question. Paul slowly wandered after her, his feet finding little irregular paths amid the graves. He looked up at the shafts of light falling on and between the dark cypresses. How high the trees were! Their tops seemed to touch the sky.

"Heaven is up there," the child said to himself; "God lives on high, above the sky. How do they get there? Do they climb up through the trees?"

Then Paul remembered having seen a picture representing two angels supporting a slightly clad female form upon their wings as they sped upwards towards the sky. He had been told that they were carrying the woman to heaven.

"Perhaps," he said to himself, "they climb as high as they can, and then the angels come and carry them the rest of the way."

And the more he mused upon the explanation he had found, the more satisfactory it seemed. Then, moved by the songs of the birds and the sweetness of the flowers and the sunshine, he suddenly began to sing words which accorded ill with the clear, joyous swell of his childish voice:

"'I'm but a stranger here,
    Heaven is my home;
  Earth is a desert drear,
    Heaven is my home.'"

The child's song reached the ear of a gentleman who was standing at a little distance, accompanied by the large and beautiful dog which was his constant companion. He was a man barely forty years of age; but he looked older, for his face had a worn and melancholy expression and showed signs of ill-health.

He had paused to read the inscription on an old tombstone, one of the oldest in the cemetery, which recorded the death, by sudden accident, of a young girl.

"Reader," said the mute warning, "whoe'er thou art, who may pause to peruse this tale of sorrows, let this awful lesson of the instability of human happiness sink deep in thy mind. If thou art young and lovely, build not thereon, for she who sleeps in death under thy feet was the loveliest flower ever cropt in its bloom."

"It is not here alone that one may learn the instability of human happiness," he said to himself. "There are worse calamities than an early death, and worse partings than it effects. Life can separate more utterly than death."

And with the thought, the very sunshine seemed to darken, and earth was to him indeed a desert. At that moment the child's song fell on his ears. He was struck with the inappropriateness of the words which came with such a joyous lilt from the childish lips.

Suddenly they ceased. Then—"Oh, what a dear dog!" said the fresh young voice from behind him.

The gentleman turned, smiling with genuine pleasure. The sight he saw was prettier than the sounds which had reached his ear. He had seen that morning Raphael's famous fresco in the church of Santa Maria della Pace, and now, peering over a low gravestone, much in the attitude depicted by the great painter, he seemed to see in the flesh the very angel-boy Raphael has so exquisitely introduced into his sublime group of Sibyls. The soft, golden curls, drooping low on the childish brow, the innocent blue eyes, the purity and sweetness of expression, were indeed such as that painter loved to render, but the picture vanished, as the child bounded to the side of the dog.

"You need not be afraid; he will not hurt you," said the gentleman; but the words were unneeded.

Paul did not know fear where animals were concerned. Already his arms were around the dog's neck, and he was kissing his soft glossy coat.

"Beppo," answered the dog's master; "and yours—what is your name, my little man?"

"Paul!" repeated the gentleman, and looked at the child with a new and deeper interest. "How old are you, Paul?"

"I'm nearly five," said the boy; "Janet says I shall be five in August, if I'm spared. That's when my birthday is, you know."

The gentleman did not smile at the child's quaint phraseology. He was gazing at Paul with an intentness the boy found embarrassing.

He turned, and rested his cheek against the dog. "Why did you call him Beppo?" he asked.

"I did not give him the name," said the gentleman. "He was named by the monks of St. Bernard, from whom I had him. He belongs to the race of dogs known as St. Bernards."

"Well, now, that is funny!" exclaimed Paul in a clear, ringing voice. "For my name is, Bernard, you know. Mother is Mrs. Bernard."

"Really!" the stranger's voice quivered as he spoke. He dropped on one knee beside the child, and put his arm around him.

"Yes," said Paul, "I have a father, though I never see him. But I shall soon; oh yes, I shall see him soon!"

"Why, because I ask God every day to let me see my father very soon," said Paul, in his matter-of-fact way, "so of course I shall."

"Because he is my father," said the child, "and fathers are good and kind. Besides, I think mother would not be so unhappy if father were to come."

"Is she unhappy?" asked the gentleman, quickly and breathlessly; "are you sure she is?"

"I should think so," said the child; "she sighs because she is unhappy; she told me so. Sometimes there are tears in her eyes when she talks to me, and that shows, you know, that she is sorry, or else naughty. I remember that mother said one day that she was naughty; but I could hardly believe it."

"Of course not," said the stranger, and his voice had a strange sound. "You love your mother very much, I am sure, little Paul."

"Yes, I do," said the boy, "and I should love my father, too, if he would only come."

"Would you—would you really?" said the gentleman. "Will you give me a kiss for your father, my dear boy?"

The child looked for a moment into the grave, pleading eyes that were only a little less blue than his own; then he threw his arms around the stranger's neck and kissed him warmly.

"Be sure you give him the kiss, and tell him it's from Paul," he cried. Then he turned again to hug the dog, which licked his face and gazed on him with great, friendly eyes, and the next minute he heard his nurse's voice calling him.

His new friend made no attempt to detain him; but he watched the graceful little form till it passed out of sight. Then he clutched at a head-stone for support, for he was trembling exceedingly, and all his strength seemed gone from him.

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. BERNARD had at last made up her mind to leave Rome. She resolved to travel northward, spending some time at Assisi and Perugia, and other places of interest. She hoped finally to establish herself for the hot summer months in some mountain resort in the neighbourhood of Turin. Having made her plans, she found, as most persons find on the eve of a departure from Rome, that the famous old city had laid its spell upon her, and to leave it was like parting from a friend. There were last visits to be paid and long-talked-of things to be done that would fill almost every hour of the few days that remained.

"You must pay a moonlight visit to the Coliseum before you go," Mrs. Dunton reminded her. "We have talked of it so often, yet left it to the last. Happily, the evenings are lovely now. The moon was brilliant last night. What do you say to going tonight, if we can make up a party?"

"I should like to go," said Mrs. Bernard, with more animation than she often displayed. "I feel as if I had not done my duty by the Coliseum, and now there is so little time."

"Oh, mother, may I go, too?" cried Paul eagerly. "I do so want to see the Coliseum by moonlight."

Mrs. Bernard shook her head. She was sorry the plan had been mentioned in the child's hearing.

"That is impossible, my darling," she said gently. "It would not be good for you to be out so late. Besides, you have a cold already. I can hear that you are hoarse."

"No, I'm not," said the child. "I'm not cold at all. Feel my hands how warm they are."

"You certainly have a cold," said his mother, "and I am afraid you are feverish. I must tell Janet to give you some medicine when she puts you to bed."

"I don't want any nasty medicine!" cried Paul impatiently. "I don't want to go to bed. Do take me to the Coliseum."

"Oh, if you are going to behave like a baby, you must go to Janet," said his mother, rising to ring the bell.

Paul's sobs increased in intensity, till his nurse bore him away in a passion of tears.

"I cannot think what is the matter with him," said Mrs. Bernard, looking troubled. "He is not at all himself to-day. He would not cry like that if he were well."

"Oh, I daresay the heat has upset him," said Mrs. Dunton. "You must expect children to get out of sorts now and then."

She thought privately that Paul's mother had rather spoiled him; but it was excusable, since he was her only child and the one object of her love.

Janet also was of opinion that Paul was not well. She had hardly ever known him so fractious as he showed himself for the rest of the day. He continued to fret because he could not go to the Coliseum, and he resisted strenuously his nurse's desire to put him to bed rather earlier than usual. When at length she got him between the sheets, his perversity continued, and it was long ere he would lie still, or show any inclination to sleep.

Janet was therefore thankful when, coming to peep at him, she at last found that he had fallen asleep. But his face was deeply flushed, his breathing quick, and his appearance made her uneasy.

"I wonder if I have done the best for him," she thought. "I've a good mind to run across the Piazza and ask the English chemist."

It was nine o'clock. The moon was slowly rising above the houses. Mrs. Bernard had just driven off with her friends to the Coliseum. The chemist's shop would probably be closed; but Janet believed that she could speak to him if she rang the bell. She put on her bonnet and hurried off, glad to know that Paul was sleeping.

But Paul was less sound asleep than his nurse supposed. Scarcely had she left him when he woke, and began moving about restlessly again. A streak of bright moonlight fell across his bed. He sat up and laid his hands upon it; he was hot and thirsty. He ran to the washhandstand and drank eagerly from the bottle of water that stood thereon.

He pulled aside the window-blind and looked out. The Piazza was as light as day. Oh, the glorious moonlight! Oh, to see the Coliseum! A fascinating idea took possession of the child's fevered brain. He would go to the Coliseum; he knew the way; he was sure he could find it. He would run all the way, and get back before Janet had time to miss him.

He was in a mood to which nothing seemed impossible. He began to put on his clothes. He had never dressed himself wholly unaided, and the buttons and straps presented some difficulty. No matter; he fastened them as best he could, and the little pilot coat he dragged out of the wardrobe covered all defects. His cap lay to hand; he put it on his head and ran to the door.

No sign of Janet in the corridor. He made his way to the head of the stairs and darted down them. The hall of the hotel was deserted, for a wonder. The waiters were talking together in the dining room, and the porter had been called upstairs. If anyone saw the child, it did not occur to that person that it was strange he should be running out alone.

Paul had a sense of exultation as he ran across the Piazza in a slanting direction. The cool air was delightful and the moonlight most lovely. How surprised his mother would be to see him at the Coliseum! It did not strike him that she would call him naughty for coming. Paul had never walked to the "big wound wooin," but he had a vague idea of the direction in which it lay, though he had not the least notion how far off it was. He ran on through the narrow streets, turning corner after corner till he found himself in the Corso. The streets were full of people, nor were children lacking, for Italian children are often allowed to sit up till unheard-of hours. Paul passed along unnoticed, for no one seeing him could imagine that he was out at that hour unattended. The pavements of the Corso were so crowded on that lovely moonlight night that the child found it difficult to push his way through the people.

It was impossible to run; but he had ceased to feel like running. A terrible weariness oppressed him, and he was conscious of being both hot and cold. He thought that the Coliseum was somewhere at the end of the Corso, but he had not known before that the Corso was so long. In places nearly the whole of the pavement was occupied by people seated at little tables eating ices or drinking coffee. All seemed to be laughing and talking gaily, and the sound of their voices made little Paul feel strangely desolate. He looked into their faces, longing to see someone whom he knew. If only he could sit down for a minute; if only they would give him something to drink!

Still he pushed on, though a faint, sick feeling was beginning to creep over him, and a strange singing sounded in his ears. He came to a place where the Corso widened out into a little piazza in which stood an ancient church. The space in front of the church was bare of people. Instinctively Paul staggered towards it. One side of the steps lay deep in shadow. The child crawled up them, and sank into a dark corner beneath the portico. There he found rest at last, for consciousness forsook him.

CHAPTER X.

MRS. BERNARD and her friends were by no means the only persons who visited the Coliseum on that lovely moonlight night. A considerable number of people were gathered in the arena. Amongst them was the stranger with whom Paul had talked in the Protestant Cemetery. He was feeling impatient of the crowd, and the noise and stir they made, as he walked along one of the deserted corridors with his great dog at his heels. He wanted to feel the poetry and sublimity of the huge historic ruin, and the careless voices and idle laughter jarred on his ear.

He stood in the shadow of one of the arches, and looked across the wide circle. A party of ladies had halted at a little distance from him and were looking up at the tiers of arches. They stood in the bright moonlight, but he had not heeded them, till one of them spoke, and at the sound of her voice his heart seemed to stand still. He turned quickly. There she stood, within a few yards of him—his wife! She was beautifully dressed as usual. The pale blue cloak with silver clasps, the large black hat with drooping plumes, became her exquisitely. For a moment he thought her unchanged; but as he looked more closely, it seemed to him that she had grown thinner, and there was a sad, weary look on the face, the delicate profile of which he could see so clearly as she gazed upwards at the mighty walls.

"Yes, it is beautiful, very beautiful," she admitted; "but all these people destroy the romance of it. One needs stillness and solitude to get properly awed and thrilled by such a scene."

"Well, you've seen it by moonlight, anyway," said a voice, unmistakably American, "and I guess that's the main thing. You can imagine the romance when you get home."

"Is it true, Mrs. Bernard, that you leave Rome this week?" asked another of the party.

"Yes, I am sorry to say that I leave on Saturday," she replied; "but I am going to spend the summer in Italy, and shall perhaps return to Rome in the autumn."

"The summer in Italy!" repeated her friend. "That is unusual, and you will find it rather dull, I should think. But, of course, you will not be alone?"

"Yes; but a child is all very well, and we know that you are a devoted mother, yet you ought to have another companion."

"I do not think so," replied Mrs. Bernard; "my boy is a great deal to me. I shall not soon weary of his company."

And the unseen observer, watching her so closely, saw her lips quiver as she spoke, and a shadow, as if of pain, pass over her face. The ladies moved on, and he followed them slowly, keeping in the gloom. They did not linger much longer. He saw them get into the carriages, which awaited them at the entrance. Then they drove off, and he, too, moved away.

He took the road leading to the Arch of Titus, and passing beneath it went on past the old Forum, lying still and beautiful in the moonlight. In the perfect quiet that reigned in that spot, he began talking to his dog, as he was wont to do.

"I could not take the boy from her, could I, Beppo? It would break her heart. Did you see how she looked when she spoke of him? What is her husband to her in comparison? Well, she is happier than I am, for she has him. And she is a devoted mother. Poor little Paul! he is not to be congratulated on his father. Yet he desires to see him; he prays God to send him. Can it be that I have been brought here in answer to his prayer? Yet what can I do to bring about a reconciliation? I dare not approach her. I have no reason to suppose that her feelings towards me have changed. What can I do, Beppo? Can you tell me?"

Beppo was looking up into his master's face with his great wise eyes. When Mr. Bernard ceased speaking, the dog thrust its black muzzle into his hand with a low whine which said—if it said anything—"Wait!"

Turning along one by-lane after another, he came into the Piazza Venezia, and from there made his way into the Corso. He was walking briskly forward, when Beppo suddenly left his side, and bounding across an open space to the right disappeared beneath the portico of an old church. Presently he reappeared, barking vigorously and bounding against his master, seemed anxious to direct his attention to the spot he had quitted. Mr. Bernard was tired, and little disposed to go out of his way.

"Nonsense, Beppo, it's nothing," he said; "or if it is, I really cannot stay to look at either a beggar or a stray cat. Come along."

But Beppo would not come. He rushed back to the church, and his loud, ringing barks began to attract the attention of every one in the street. Much annoyed, Mr. Bernard went after the dog.

Beppo was crouching over something that lay in the dark corner of the portico. Bending down, Mr. Bernard could dimly see the form of a little child, apparently asleep. He lit a match to enable him to see more clearly, and to his unutterable amazement, the light revealed the face of his own child.

What did it mean? How had he come there? Had there been foul play? A hundred questions presented themselves, as with tremulous tenderness he lifted the child into his arms and examined him carefully.

Paul opened his eyes for a moment as he was moved; but they closed again, and his head fell drowsily on his father's shoulder. But he was sound in body and limb, and with a feeling of relief his father carried him into the street, and hailing the first empty carriage, was driven with the child in his arms to the house where he was staying, which happily was close by.

How thankful he was that he had established himself in quiet rooms, and not at a large hotel! There was no one but his faithful servant, who looked after his comfort as well as any woman could, to receive him as he entered with the child.

"Has he had a fall, sir? No?" With the seriousness of a medical man, James felt the child's pulse and laid his hand on his brow. "It seems to me like a case of fever, sir," he then remarked in the calmest manner, for he was a man who never suffered himself to be perturbed whatever happened.

"I think so, too," said his master. "You must fetch a doctor at once, James; and, stay, you must also carry a note to the child's mother at the Hotel Londra."

"If his mother is at the hotel, sir, wouldn't it be better to take him there?" the servant ventured to suggest.

It took him but a minute to write a few words on a piece of paper and direct them to Mrs. Bernard. James went off with it at once; and Paul's father, with awkward yet tender hands, proceeded to undress the child and lay him in his own bed.

CHAPTER XI.

JANET could hardly believe her own eyes when, on her return from visiting the chemist, she found Paul's little bed empty, and the child nowhere to be seen. She searched for him through the hotel, thinking that he must have wandered from his bed in delirium. Then, with a new sense of horror, she discovered that his clothes had vanished likewise. Even his little overcoat and cap were missing, so he must have gone out of doors. Surely someone had come during her brief absence and carried him away. Like one distracted, she ran to inform the manager of the hotel.

He was startled by her statement that the child had been stolen, but assured her that it was impossible for anyone to enter the hotel and carry off the child unseen.

"He cannot be far off; he must be found directly," he said. And sent his servants hither and thither in search of the wanderer.

Janet herself went to and fro, searching in every likely and unlikely place without result till she was almost beside herself. No light had been thrown on the mystery when Paul's mother drove up to the hotel accompanied by her friends.

How Janet told her mistress she never could remember. The faithful servant was too miserable already to suffer much more, when Mrs. Bernard turned on her with bitter reproaches.

"You had no right to leave him for an instant!" cried the anguish-stricken mother. "I thought I could trust you. My child is lost to me now. I will never forgive you, never."

"Don't say that he is lost," said Mrs. Dunton, "that is impossible. He cannot be far off; he must be found immediately."

"This is my husband's doing," she said in Mrs. Dunton's ear. "He has taken my boy from me; I knew he would."

"That cannot be," replied her friend. "Why should he do such a thing? It was agreed that you should keep Paul till he was seven years old."

Mrs. Bernard made no reply. The idea that had taken possession of her mind was not to be lightly dislodged. Just then the manager hurried towards her with a note in his hand.

"This has been brought this moment for madame," he said; "perhaps it contains news of the child."

Her hands trembled visibly as she tore open the envelope. It contained but a few words, yet it took her some moments to grasp their meaning, so great was her agitation.

"MY WIFE,—I have found our child lying senseless in a street corner. I have brought him here. He seems very ill. Will you come?

"Your husband,

"JOHN BERNARD.

"96, Via Nazionale."

In a few minutes, Mrs. Bernard was in a carriage on her way to the Via Nazionale. Mrs. Dunton had offered to accompany her; but she preferred to take Janet, in spite of her indignation with that honest servant.

Mrs. Bernard said scarce a word as they drove along. She was astounded by the facts presented by that brief note. Her husband in Rome! That he should find his child senseless in the street!

"A pretty mother he will think me!" she said to herself with anguish. "He will surely judge me unfit to be longer the guardian of his child."

Yet there was sweetness as well as bitterness in the thoughts suggested by the note. As she held it tight within her hand, she was glad to remember that it began with "my wife" and ended with "your husband." Husband and wife! "What God has joined together." The hot tears sprang to her eyes; then her thoughts turned back to her child in deep anxiety.

She felt like one in a dream when her husband, who was on the look-out for her, helped her to alight from the carriage and led her into the house. She had a dim sense that he looked older and thinner than she remembered him. His voice was so gentle that it made her afraid.

"How is he?" she asked with faltering voice. "Tell me the worst at once, please. He is not—he is not—"

"No, no," said her husband; "he is unconscious and in a high fever, but I have good hope that he will recover! The doctor is with him now; you shall see him in a few minutes, but pray calm yourself first."

"You must think me a most careless mother," she said; "but I left him in good hands, as I thought. Janet was responsible for him; she can perhaps explain how he came into the street."

"That I cannot indeed," said Janet. "I left him fast asleep in bed, and I just ran round to the chemist's to get him some medicine. I was not away more than half an hour; but when I got back, he was gone!"

John Bernard looked keenly at the nurse as she spoke. He recognised her as the woman he had seen with Paul in the cemetery. He felt, too, that she spoke truly, and was worthy of trust.

"It was a pity you left him; but it cannot be helped now," he said kindly; "no doubt he was delirious when he got up and ran out. When I undressed him, I found that his clothes were huddled on in the strangest fashion."

A few minutes later, they were all standing beside the bed on which Paul lay. His stupor had passed. He was talking rapidly and incoherently; but he knew no one who looked on him. Now Janet's name was on his lips, and now his mother's. Now he talked of the Coliseum, and now he was amid the graves in the cemetery, puzzling over their connection with the heaven above. Then he began to speak of his father:

"If only my father would come!" he sighed. "I want him to carry me; I'm so tired. No, that's not my father; that's the Pope. The Pope is only the Pope; but I want my father. Why does he not come?"

"Your father is here, little Paul," said Mr. Bernard, kneeling beside the bed, "here, by your side, holding you."

But the child was conscious of neither voice nor touch. John Bernard glanced at his wife. She had covered her face with her hands.

The medical man found himself at present unable to determine the nature of the fever which had attacked the child. His exposure to the night air and sleep on the hard stones had rendered his condition more serious than it would have been if taken in hand at first. The doctor was anxious but hopeful, since his patient was a sturdy little fellow, who might battle successfully with disease. He spoke encouragingly; but Paul's mother could take no comfort from his words. She looked the image of despair as she sat beside her child. Janet went back to the hotel to fetch various things that were needed; but Mrs. Bernard would not quit the little sufferer for a moment.

"Clarice," he said gently, "take comfort. He will live. Something within me tells me that he will live."

"The voice within me says otherwise," she said after a moment; "I have been a wicked woman, John, unworthy to be the mother of such a little child, and he will be taken from me. It is my punishment."

"God's punishments are blessings, my dear wife," he replied. "Already there is mercy in this trial, since it has brought us together. The poet tells how husband and wife who had fallen out were reconciled as they stood beside a little grave. Thank God, dearest, you and I may clasp hands over a living child, and join our prayers for his recovery. Shall we do so?"

His wife broke into sobs. He threw his arms about her, drew her to his heart, and they kissed again with tears.

CHAPTER XII.

JOHN BERNARD entered the room where his wife lay, having at last consented to take a little repose. She was on the couch by the window. There was bright sunshine outside; but the venetians were closed, making a pleasant twilight in the room. She still wore the handsome silken gown in which she had dined and gone forth to view the Coliseum by moonlight. She had lain down, intending only to rest for half an hour; but sleep had stolen upon her, and she had been sleeping for more than two hours. She was still pale, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes; but her look was peaceful, and her husband felt as he gazed down on her that she had lost none of her beauty or her charm. Thankful to find her sleeping, he was about to steal away when she opened her eyes. For a moment they met his in bewilderment; then her colour rose and she sat up.

"He is going on all right," said her husband cheerfully. "A rash has appeared which leaves the doctor no longer any doubt as to his malady. It is scarlet fever."

"It might be worse, dearest. I think the doctor is relieved to find that it is scarlet fever. There is every reason to hope that the disease will follow a normal course, and the child make a good recovery."

"God grant it!" murmured Mrs. Bernard, as she rose and hastily crossed the room.

Her husband laid his hand on her arm as she was about to open the door. "Stay a moment, Clarice. I have something to say to you."

"Janet is with him now, you know," said Mr. Bernard. "She says she has had the fever, and has not the least fear of infection."

"Nor have I," said Mrs. Bernard quickly. "If that is all—" and she turned the handle.

"It is not all," said her husband. "Of course, I knew you would be fearless; but, dear, I want you to think of our boy's best interests. The doctor and I have agreed that it would be most unwise to suffer you to run any risk of infection."

"What do you mean?" she asked. "You cannot suppose that I am not going to nurse Paul myself. It is my right as his mother."

"Then, dearest, I will ask you to forego that right for his sake and mine," said Mr. Bernard; "Paul cannot afford to lose his mother, nor can I afford to lose my wife."

Clarice Bernard stood motionless. The word wife thrilled her with the memory of their recent reconciliation, and the joy which had come in the midst of sorrow and dread. Were their wills clashing already?

"I do not see why you need imagine such a thing," she said; "I am not at all likely to take the fever."

"We cannot tell that," said Mr. Bernard, "and I do not think you ought to run the risk. Janet is perfectly able to nurse him, and I shall be at hand to help her."

"It is not an equal risk for me," he said; "I am older, and I shall take every precaution. There is less fear for me, indeed."

"I am stronger than I look," he replied. "Dearest, I am persuaded that all will go well, if you will only do as I wish. The doctor says you may return to your hotel now without any fear of carrying infection. I will arrange to meet you every day and tell you all about Paul, then as soon as it is safe, we will go into the country together."

Mrs. Bernard stood motionless. Her hand had dropped from the door. When at last she spoke, her voice had an unnatural sound.

"I know I am," he replied tenderly. "It seems cruel to ask it, but I believe it will be for Paul's real good, and he and I will both thank you ere long for the sacrifice you have made."

"That if Paul should be very ill," her voice quivered painfully as she spoke; "if there should be danger, you will let me see him before—" She could not finish, but her husband understood.

"Yes, yes," he said, and his own voice was husky, "I promise you that; you may trust me."

"God bless you, my darling!" said her husband. "It grieves me to send you away thus, but I am sure it is the best thing for us all."

"You have conquered me," she said softly. "It was not—it was not for Paul's sake only that I gave in. Give me another promise—that you will take care of my husband for me, as well as of my child."

CHAPTER XIII.

SO Mrs. Bernard stayed on in Rome after most of the English visitors had departed. Her acquaintances bestowed much pity on her as they made their adieux; but, in truth, the weeks she passed so quietly were by no means unhappy ones, though she would have been loth to admit how much enjoyment she found in them.

The fever followed its usual course, and though Paul suffered a great deal, he was never in danger. Every day his mother found something to send him. Every day, too, she met Paul's father and heard from him the details which had for her such intense interest. They would walk together in the Villa Borghese or the Villa Doria, and the long afternoons they spent thus seemed to pass with marvellous rapidity.

Slowly the child's tedious convalescence advanced, till the infectious stage was over. It was a happy day for Mrs. Bernard when she set out for Frascati to seek rooms there to which she might welcome her husband and child, and still happier that of their arrival.

Frascati was in the perfection of its summer beauty. The country around was green with spreading vines and the deeper verdure of magnificent woods. The greyish hue of the olive-trees contrasted powerfully with the vivid green of the grass which grew about their roots. Even the ancient ilexes had a suggestion of youth in the fresh, yellowish shoots they were putting forth. The brilliant sunshine rendered delightful the deep shade of the bosky villas, while it brought to perfection the roses which flourished so luxuriantly in their gardens. It seemed to Clarice Bernard that she had never seen a more lovely place. Her heart was so full of joy and thankfulness that the inner sunshine enhanced the glory of the outer.

She stood on the top of the flight of steps leading down to the railway station, looking far into the distance, and watching for the snowy streak which should reveal the approach of the train from Rome. It was the most lovely hour of the day. The sun's level rays illumined the vast, broad Campagna, and made the sea-line gleam like silver. But Paul's mother had only one thought at that moment. The train was late; but at last it came into view. She ran quickly down the steps, and was soon clasping her boy to her heart.

Paul looked radiant. Illness had not marred his appearance. It had given a more delicate bloom to his complexion, and made his eyes look larger and more earnest. Evidently it had not rendered his tongue less nimble.

"Oh, mother!" he cried joyously. "Is it not nice that we are all together again, you and father, and Janet and Beppo?"

"So Beppo is one of the family now," said his mother with a smile. "Yes, it is indeed nice, Paul; better for me than for you. I have wanted my little boy so badly."

"And I have wanted you," he said. "But was it not a good thing, mother, that I ran out that night? If I had not, perhaps father would never have found me, or I him."

"It made me very unhappy at the time, Paul," said his mother; "but I think now that everything has turned out for good."

They went slowly up the long flight of steps, looking at the beautiful plantations, the flowering aloes, the roses, the fountains that gradually came into view.

His parents looked at each other and smiled. They were so happy that they seemed indeed to have found a Paradise.

The following was a high day at Frascati, the festival of Corpus Christi. From the balcony of the house in which they were lodging, Paul and his parents looked down on the gay scene presented by the crowded piazza. The whole place seemed astir. Peasants wearing blue blouses were seated on the steps of the church; other country folk were arriving on donkeys; women in gay attire with their rich black tresses gracefully coiled, stood knitting and chatting in groups, brown-frocked friars moved amid the crowd, and boyish priestlings sped to and fro on important errands. Paul watched everything with eager eyes, and asked innumerable questions.

About noon a series of mild explosions announced that the procession was about to set forth from the old cathedral. First came the acolytes in their white gowns and pale blue capes with quaint white hoods, then a troop of boys wearing surplices made of coarse black calico with white linen bands hanging beneath their chins, giving them a resemblance to Scottish doctors of divinity. Huge black crosses, crucifixes, and gorgeous banners were borne aloft as they advanced. After these stepped some tiny girls dressed as "angelette," in white frocks veiled with chiffon, from which peeped forth at their shoulders gilded wings. Then came a group of elderly women, who had donned the ancient and beautiful costumes of the country-side. These were followed by a band of young girls in white, wearing their "first communion" veils. Last of all, the archbishop attended by clergy marched forth under a canopy, carrying the Host. As it approached, the people in the piazza fell upon their knees.

"What superstition, what blind materialism it seems!" Mrs. Bernard whispered in her husband's ear. "John, can you believe that I came near joining the Roman Catholic Church?"

"Yet it is true," she replied. "I was so weary, so burdened, so desolate, and they promised me rest and peace. They said that the confessional would ease my conscience, and the priest absolve me from my sin."

"Alas, I did!" she said. "I tried to believe their words. It was our little Paul who kept me from that fatal mistake. His childish words taught me that God is near and ready to forgive, and that we can come to Him in sorrow and penitence without the intervention of any human priest. And now that I have confessed to my God, and know myself forgiven for my Saviour's sake, I marvel that I was ever fascinated by this elaborate and materialistic system of religion, which hides the very truth it professes to set forth."

"Ay, truly," said her husband. "They lift the cross on high and wreathe it with flowers; they exalt the image of the suffering Christ, yet deny the power of His cross, and teach men to trust for salvation to human rites and ceremonies. It is a strange perversity by which they make the very forms and methods of their worship defeat the main purpose of worship and separate the soul from God."

"What is that gilt thing he is carrying, and why do the people kneel?" asked little Paul. "Did Jesus tell them to do that?"

"Paul's question points to the mainspring of all true Christian life and service—the word of Christ," she said. "Truly, one must become as a little child to enter the kingdom of heaven."

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A little Protestant in Rome

A Little Protestant

in Rome

CHAPTER I.