On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, “She imagines that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating that she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would make her feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco? Please let him know that it is not an occasion for the Sacraments. But it would do her good if he would come and talk with her.” And the doctor, who arrived just then, having visited Marietta, confirmed the sister's opinion. “She is no worse--she is, if anything, rather better. Her malady is taking its natural course. But people of her class always fancy they are going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there is not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments.” So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi came back with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday. “What shall we do now?” Peter asked of Sister Scholastica. “There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose,” said the sister. “Could I ask him to come?” Peter doubted. “Certainly,” said the sister. “In a case of illness, the nearest priest will always gladly come.” So Peter despatched Gigi with a note to Monsignor Langshawe. And presently up drove a brougham, with Gigi on the box beside the coachman. And from the brougham descended, not Monsignor Langshawe, but Cardinal Udeschini, followed by Emilia Manfredi. The Cardinal gave Peter his hand, with a smile so sweet, so benign, so sunny-bright--it was like music, Peter thought; it was like a silent anthem. “Monsignor Langshawe has gone to Scotland, for his holiday. I have come in his place. Your man told me of your need,” the Cardinal explained. “I don't know how to thank your Eminence,” Peter murmured, and conducted him to Marietta's room. Sister Scholastica genuflected, and kissed the Cardinal's ring, and received his Benediction. Then she and Peter withdrew, and went into the garden. The sister joined Emilia, and they walked backwards and forwards together, talking. Peter sat on his rustic bench, smoked cigarettes, and waited. Nearly an hour passed. At length the Cardinal came out. Peter rose, and went forward to meet him. The Cardinal was smiling; but about his eyes there was a suggestive redness. “Mr. Marchdale,” he said, “your housekeeper is in great distress of conscience touching one or two offences she feels she has been guilty of towards you. They seem to me, in frankness, somewhat trifling. But I cannot persuade her to accept my view. She will not be happy till she has asked and received your pardon for them.” “Offences towards me?” Peter wondered. “Unless excess of patience with a very trying employer constitutes an offence, she has been guilty of none.” “Never mind,” said the Cardinal. “Her conscience accuses her--she must satisfy it. Will you come?”