‘That were a foolish wish, daughter,’ said the holy man. ‘Naples is very fine and its bay is beautiful, but you have something better to look at. See, the crucifix! Behold Who bleeds and suffers there—Who founded the Catholic Church of which I am a humble member, and in whose name I speak. At one time, if I may believe what I hear, you were not quite so fond of Naples as you seem to be now. I have heard that you went to the land of the heretics—that Island of England which has so long denied the faith, but which I am glad to find is abandoning its heresy, repenting of its sin, and returning to the Holy See. When we see the sister of an English Prime Minister find salvation in the bosom of the Holy Church, when our sacred officials are run after in all the highest circles, when they astonish all London by their works of charity and labours of love, by their eloquence and learning and saintly lives; when these Islanders, insolent and haughty as they are to one another, crowd as they do to Rome, and prostrate themselves at Rome’s feet as they do, we know that the end is near—that the time of the triumph of the one Catholic and Universal Church, to whom St. Peter committed the care of the keys, is at hand. Pray that that blessed time may soon arrive. I have been to St. Paul’s—I know Westminster Abbey—it would rejoice my heart to hear that once more there was performed in them the Holy Service of the Mass.’ ‘Holy father, that is my daily prayer.’ ‘I am glad to hear you say so. But tell me, when you were among the heretics were you always a daughter of the Church?’ ‘Always, holy father. I fulfilled my mission—you know what that was.’ ‘I have heard something of it.’ ‘I should think so,’ replied the lady with a smile. ‘I had money, and I drew around me its worshippers. I was of an old Italian family, and stood well in the upper London circles. I had beauty—smile not, holy father, though you see me old and yellow and wrinkled—and beauty, as you know, never spreads its net in vain. I believe, also, I had wit, and wit goes far in that land of fogs and foxhunters, of prudish women and milksops, of cant and humbug.’ ‘Ah,’ said the monk, with a smile of approbation, ‘you seem not to have liked those English—those heretics—those lunatic sightseers who, as they never can be happy at home, come to us to forget their sorrows, and who fancy that by doing so they are amusing themselves.’ ‘Truly no, holy father. How could I? They do not even worship the Virgin Mary!’ The holy father shook his head and sighed. ‘I think, daughter, you wished to have a chat with me. There was something on your mind.’ ‘Holy father, you are right; and as I cannot come to church to make confession I have sent for you.’