"I cannot:" and then the fountains of the great deep were discovered. His veneer of English peeled off: he spoke with the sibilate dental, the clipped deliberation of the Gael. No one ever had told him. He did not know till a month ago. No one knew. He had not mentioned it to his confessor, because it was not a sin. He read of it in Lehmkuhl and Togni. He would be obliged to go back and work on his uncle's farm where he had been brought up. They belonged to the Free Kirk there. He was an orphan. It was his uncle by marriage. Hadrian looked steadily into his eyes: "Is this the truth, as though you were speaking before kings?" "It wass the truth ass though she wass speaking pefore kings," the response came in the strongest form of asseveration known to a Gael, deliberately selected and offered by Him Who knew so little, and so much of so many little things. Hadrian comforted him; and bade him pack his bag. His secret was safe. Vatican was the place for him, until some sort of useful happy life could be planned for him. The Pope very slowly went-up the last two flights of stairs to the top corridor. No man can come into a human tragedy without some vibrance of sentiment; and Hadrian's senses, keen by nature, were intensified by art. He entered the room of the black-haired Erse, who most certainly had kissed the blarney-stone. Och! Blessins on the Howly Forther's blessid head and might the howly saints receive Him into glory. The Pope wrote a blessing in a garish birthday book; and got out of the room as quickly as possible. That such a lovely bit of colour and litheness should be so abject on the floor! His Holiness shut-down the lid on memory; and knocked at another door. "Come." He entered a large bare square room with a window which displayed the City from the Quirinal to St. Peter's. He noted the bed, the chest of drawers whose top was arranged as a dressing-table, the writing table, book case, and two chairs. A bath stood under the bed; and there were two large tin cans of water against the wall. The fastidious inmate offered a chair; and remained standing in the Presence. Hadrian signed to him to be seated also. "Dear son, you are one of the unhappy ones. Will you tell Us your grief?" "Sanctity, I have not complained." "No. But, complain." "I will not complain." The Pope liked him for that; and for an air of distinction which was not breeding. Dialectic should be tried. "How old are you?" "Twenty-nine." "In which month were you born?" "In July." "In England?" "In England." A rapid horoscopical calculation let Hadrian know the lines on which to proceed. "You find your environment disagreeable?" "All environments are more or less disagreeable to me." "All which you have tried up to the present, perhaps. Perhaps the future may be more propitious." "Sanctity, I earnestly hope so: but I do not expect it." "Why not?" "I do not know."