“Hush!” she said, aghast at my fury. Her hands trembled, fluttering the paper. “Hush! Be calm! You say things you cannot mean. God forgive you the threat of such apostasy!” “And you,” I cried, still stormily, “such a witness against a poor child’s character.” “No, no,” she entreated, almost abjectly, “I wish only the truth. Father Pope wishes only the truth. Tell me frankly, do you recognise these lines?” With a great effort I subdued my emotion, and took the paper frigidly from her hand. It was folded at the following verse, which I had to bite my lips, pretending to read:-- “Thrice happy she who from thy kindling eye Shall draw some spark to illuminate her breast, A wistful wanderer between earth and sky, With doubts of love’s true haven sore oppressed.” “Do you recognise them?” she repeated. “Yes, madam,” I acknowledged, looking up between reserve and defiance. “You do?” she murmured, taken aback. “And it is your hand?” “No, madam,” I answered quietly. “It is Miss Grant’s, but disguised.” She echoed the word, at once incredulous, and fearful of exciting another outbreak by appearing so. “Disguised! For what purpose? And to whom addressed?” “To me,” I answered. “It was part of a game between us; but we will play it no more.” She echoed in amazement, “A game!” Then asked faintly, “What game?” “I was the Hermit of the Rocks,” I said, “and Miss Grant the Princess Camilla, who wrote to consult me as to her vocation, whether for the cloister or for marriage with a pious young gentleman.” It was an inspiration, which I had no sooner uttered than I feared for my rashness. But I need not have. Madam, as her slow perceptives kindled, grew one shine of happy intelligence. “A game!” she repeated, smiling holy-motherly over the decorous innocence of our inventions. “Well, I will say it was a very proper one, though a little ambiguous in the articles of love to be addressed to a hermit. But how came it in the chaplain’s book, child?” I confessed that I had had the curiosity to read in the Father’s breviary, and must unwittingly have left the paper there for a marker. She kissed me then, and, while deprecating my inquisitiveness in matters which did not concern me, apologised very handsomely, I will say, for having so traduced me on a shred of evidence. “It shall be a lesson to me, and a penance,” she said. “But, child, go now and retract your wicked recantation, before perhaps the devil shall claim you to your sin.” “It was very hard, madam,” I said, still rebellious. “Why, being disguised, should Father Pope have decided as of course that the verses were mine?” “Ah!” she said, blushing and embarrassed. “That I do not know--I think; but little Patty is no genius.”