In a few momenta I was dressed, and walking in the small garden attached to the convent. Claire left me for a short time, and then came out followed or rather attended by her friend. He was dressed in the common black robe of his order, with the cowl thrown back so as fully to display his head and throat. For the first time, I understood that he was not a monk, but only a clergyman, as we should say. A priest, and not a very old one either. Certainly he had never numbered more than thirty-five years. His face was entirely pale, and his temples covered with dark hair, while his red lips and white, even teeth had the grace of feminine contour. I was struck with the gravity, even to sadness, of his manner, no less than with the beauty of his person. He uttered in a low, quiet voice the usual benediction, and then asked me to listen to him, as he had much to say to me. I replied with some surprise, that I was quite at his service, and leading me to a rude garden-seat, over which honeysuckles and roses made a natural bower, he said quietly to Claire— “You will leave us, Claire, for half an hour; and send Sister Mary with some of her coffee and best buns.” This was not precisely the confessional I had anticipated; and in spite of the little flutter of my spirits, this picture of myself, in high colloquy with a Catholic priest, sipping hot coffee and eating nice buns, was so laughable, that I could hardly keep my face in a state of suitable gravity. Sister Mary’s white buns and fragrant coffee were delicious indeed. While I partook of them, Father Angelo leaned his head on his hand in profound abstraction. His complete absorption continued for some minutes after the nun had left us alone. At length he raised his head, and looking steadily at me, said abruptly, “I suppose it is vain to attempt any thing like a conversion of your principles to the true church.” “Entirely so,” I answered, “as I was born and educated I shall probably remain.” “So I thought.” Again there was a long silence. What it was to end in, I could not guess; but I determined not to break it. My companion was evidently agitated and uncomfortable. His red lips became pale and quivering, and his brow bent. He rose from his seat, and paced back and forward on the graveled walk. After some time had elapsed in this inward conflict, he seated himself once more by my side, and taking my hand, addressed me thus: “Pardon me for saying that I require from you a solemn promise of secrecy in regard to what I am about to communicate.” I was somewhat prepared for a communication, it is true; but not at all disposed to bind myself to secrecy with a stranger. He seemed to read my thoughts, for he fixed his bright eyes on mine, and then dropped them with an expression of embarrassment. “I should not have asked you, madam, for this pledge of secrecy, but that it is of much importance—and—and I think you can receive no inconvenience—possibly—”