“Andrew?” repeated the Cardinal, stopping to think a moment. “Yes—the head is in the shrine of St. Peter’s, and the rest of the remains are distributed among various churches.” “I ask this,” explained Irene, in answer to the Cardinal’s questioning glance, “because the Apostle Andrew is particularly dear to Russians, having been the first to teach us Christianity.” “Of course—I know! Andrew, the brother of Saint Peter,” said the Cardinal with a subtle smile, as though wishing to underline the fact that Rome and Russia had received Christianity from two brothers. “Well, and what churches have you seen in Rome?” Irene mentioned several of the most famous. “Have you been to the church of Saint Cecilia?” asked the Cardinal a little uncertainly. “No?”—he was clearly disappointed. “You should go there without fail. It is my church—it has some very interesting subterranean passages.” A tender smile suddenly illuminated the stern features of this old and serious man. Irene afterwards ascertained that Cardinal R⸺ had spent his whole fortune on the restoration and preservation of the church of Saint Cecilia. She went to see this church on the following day. The ancient shrine gleamed with cleanliness and freshness. Small electric lamps burned before the marble statue of Saint Cecilia, and flowers stood before each of her images. Irene visited the underground sepulchre that holds the remains of the Saint, and was charmed with the elegant new chapel, its small, slim columns, and its exquisite mosaics in the Byzantine style. Thus might one decorate and beautify the tomb of a beloved daughter. On entering this chapel Irene understood the true character of Cardinal R⸺, and knew that his stern exterior concealed a tender, loving heart, which, in the absence of personal family ties, had ardently attached itself to a poetical shadow, to someone’s pure and lovely image, to someone’s spotless and sacred memory. Gzhatski was much pleased with the impression produced upon Irene by Cardinal R⸺, and announced that she must now make the acquaintance of Monsignor Lefrène, of whom all Rome was talking. Monsignor Lefrène, a clever and highly intellectual Frenchman, had written a history of the Christian Church. The book had been published, sold, and widely read, when suddenly the Jesuit Fathers, who always play the part of defenders of Catholic purity, announced that Lefrène’s history was dangerous to the faithful. “It contains nothing contrary to Catholic dogmas,” they wrote, “but its whole tone and tendency is offensive, and likely to do much harm.”