“A few years ago, in the old time,” the Signora said, “the price of bread was raised in Rome, for some reason or other, or for no reason. Some days after the Holy Father passed by here on his way to his favorite church, and ours, Bianca. He was walking, and his carriage following. I can see him now, in his white robe, his hands behind his back, holding his hat, and his sweet face ready with a kind glance for all. A poor man approached, asked to speak to him, and was allowed. ‘Holy Father,’ he said, kneeling down, ‘the price of bread is raised, and the people are hungry, for they cannot afford to buy it.’ The Pope gave him an alms and his benediction, and passed on. The next day the price of bread was reduced to its former rate. “‘Such grace had kings when the world began.’” One anecdote led to another; and then there was some music, Isabel playing rather brilliantly on the piano in the _sala_, a group of candles at either hand lighting up her face and person and that part of the room. Afterward, when the rest of the company had gone into the drawing-rooms, Bianca, sitting in a half-dark, sang two or three ballads so sweetly that they almost held their breaths to listen to her. Her singing made them feel quiet, and as if the evening were over; and when it ended, Mr. Bailey and the _signore_ took leave. The family sat a while longer in the _sala_, with no light but a lamp that burned before a Madonna at the end of the long room. Outside, a pine-tree lifted its huge umbrella against the pure sky, and a great tower showed in the same lucid deep. The streets in front were still and deserted, the windows all dark and sullen. The moon had long since set, and the stars were like large, wide-open eyes that stare with sleepiness. Some Campagna people, who had been in the city, and were going home again, passed by, and stirred the silence with the sound of an accordeon, with which they enlivened their midnight walk; then all was still again. “The night-sounds of Rome are almost always pleasant,” the Signora said. “Sometimes the country people come in with a tambourine and singing, but it is not noisy, and if it wakes you it is only for a few minutes. Sometimes it is a wine-cart, with all its little bells.” The clock of _Santa Maria Maggiore_ was heard striking twelve. “My bells!” she exclaimed; then added: “I wish I could tell you all their lovely ways. For one, when they have the Forty Hours at the basilica, only the great bell strikes the hours, instead of three smaller ones, as now; and for the Angelus the four bells ring steadily together their little running song, while the great bell strikes now and then, but so softly as to be only a dream of a sound, as if _Maria Assunta_ were talking to herself. It is delicious!” “I hear a bell now――a little bell,” Mr. Vane said.