We were together, my father and I, under the shade of a little cluster of olive trees high up among the mountains. Far away below us the Campagna stretched to the foot of the dim hills steeped in blue which surround the Eternal City, towards which we had been gazing in a silence which had been for long unbroken. It was I at last who spoke, pointing downwards to where the bare grey stone walls of a small monastic building rose with almost startling abruptness from a narrow ledge of sward overhanging the precipice. "Is this to be the end, then, father?" I cried bitterly; "this prison-house?" He turned towards me with a look upon his face which I had grown to hate--a look calm and gentle enough, but full of resolution as unchanging as the mountains which towered above us. "It must be so, Philip," he said, quietly. "Is it well, think you, that I should return again into the life which I am weary of, when all that I desire lies here ready to my hand? Peace and rest--I want nothing more." "And why cannot you find them in England--at Ravenor with me?" I cried eagerly. "And your work, too--it could be done again. We would live alone there and bury ourselves from the world and everyone in it. I could help you. I could be your amanuensis. I should like that better than anything. Remember how all the papers lamented the cruel destruction of your manuscripts, and how everyone hoped that you would rewrite them. Oh, you must not do this thing, father--you must not! You have no right to cut yourself off from the world--no right!" I re-echoed passionately. He shook his head slowly, but alas! with no sign of yielding. "Philip," he said quietly, "it troubles me to hear you plead like this in vain, for so it must ever be. I am happy now; happy in the recollection of the time we have spent together. Happy, too, in the thought that I can end my days in peace, with no disturbing ghosts of the past to rise up and haunt me!" I was silent and kept my face turned away towards the mountains, for I would not have had him see my weakness. Soon he spoke again, and this time there was a vein of sadness in his tone. "The time has come for us to part for awhile, Philip. There is one thing more which I would say to you. It concerns Cecil." "Cecil?" I echoed vaguely. "Yes." "All his life he has been brought up to consider himself my heir. Now, of course, things will be very different with him. He is weak and easily led. I should like to think that you were friends; and if you have an opportunity of helping him in any way you will not neglect it." "I will not," I promised. "Cecil and I will always be friends." We descended the steep hillside path and stood together almost on the threshold of the little monastery. Then my father held out his hand to me, and a soft, sweet light shone for a moment in his dark blue eyes.