“Oh, I will shut it off before I go,” answered Don Ippolito. “Let it play a moment,” he continued, gazing rapturously upon it, while the moon painted his lifted face with a pallor that his black robes heightened. He fetched a long, sighing breath, as if he inhaled with that respiration all the rich odors of the flowers, blanched like his own visage in the white lustre; as if he absorbed into his heart at once the wide glory of the summer night, and the beauty of the young girl at his side. It seemed a supreme moment with him; he looked as a man might look who has climbed out of lifelong defeat into a single instant of release and triumph. Florida sank upon the bench before the fountain, indulging his caprice with that sacred, motherly tolerance, some touch of which is in all womanly yielding to men’s will, and which was perhaps present in greater degree in her feeling towards a man more than ordinarily orphaned and unfriended. “Is Providence your native city?” asked Don Ippolito, abruptly, after a little silence. “Oh no; I was born at St. Augustine in Florida.” “Ah yes, I forgot; madama has told me about it; Providence is _her_ city. But the two are near together?” “No,” said Florida, compassionately, “they are a thousand miles apart.” “A thousand miles? What a vast country!” “Yes, it’s a whole world.” “Ah, a world, indeed!” cried the priest, softly. “I shall never comprehend it.” “You never will,” answered the young girl gravely, “if you do not think about it more practically.” “Practically, practically!” lightly retorted the priest. “What a word with you Americans; That is the consul’s word: _practical_.” “Then you have been to see him to-day?” asked Florida, with eagerness. “I wanted to ask you”-- “Yes, I went to consult the oracle, as you bade me.” “Don Ippolito”-- “And he was averse to my going to America. He said it was not practical.” “Oh!” murmured the girl. “I think,” continued the priest with vehemence, “that Signor Ferris is no longer my friend.” “Did he treat you coldly--harshly?” she asked, with a note of indignation in her voice. “Did he know that I--that you came”-- “Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I shall indeed go to ruin there. Ruin, ruin! Do I not _live_ ruin here?” “What did he say--what did he tell you?” “No, no; not now, madamigella! I do not want to think of that man, now. I want you to help me once more to realize myself in America, where I shall never have been a priest, where I shall at least battle even-handed with the world. Come, let us forget him; the thought of him palsies all my hope. He could not see me save in this robe, in this figure that I abhor.” “Oh, it was strange, it was not like him, it was cruel! What did he say?” “In everything but words, he bade me despair; he bade me look upon all that makes life dear and noble as impossible to me!”