“I was only going to say--it seems to me almost a pity that the Church should forbid priests to marry. I cannot quite understand why. You see, the training of children is such a serious thing, and it means so much to them to be surrounded from the very beginning with good influences, that I should have thought the holier a man's vocation and the purer his life, the more fit he is to be a father. I am sure, Padre, if you had not been under a vow,--if you had married,--your children would have been the very----” “Hush!” The word was uttered in a hasty whisper that seemed to deepen the ensuing silence. “Padre,” Arthur began again, distressed by the other's sombre look, “do you think there is anything wrong in what I said? Of course I may be mistaken; but I must think as it comes natural to me to think.” “Perhaps,” Montanelli answered gently, “you do not quite realize the meaning of what you just said. You will see differently in a few years. Meanwhile we had better talk about something else.” It was the first break in the perfect ease and harmony that reigned between them on this ideal holiday. From Chamonix they went on by the Tete-Noire to Martigny, where they stopped to rest, as the weather was stiflingly hot. After dinner they sat on the terrace of the hotel, which was sheltered from the sun and commanded a good view of the mountains. Arthur brought out his specimen box and plunged into an earnest botanical discussion in Italian. Two English artists were sitting on the terrace; one sketching, the other lazily chatting. It did not seem to have occurred to him that the strangers might understand English. “Leave off daubing at the landscape, Willie,” he said; “and draw that glorious Italian boy going into ecstasies over those bits of ferns. Just look at the line of his eyebrows! You only need to put a crucifix for the magnifying-glass and a Roman toga for the jacket and knickerbockers, and there's your Early Christian complete, expression and all.” “Early Christian be hanged! I sat beside that youth at dinner; he was just as ecstatic over the roast fowl as over those grubby little weeds. He's pretty enough; that olive colouring is beautiful; but he's not half so picturesque as his father.” “His--who?” “His father, sitting there straight in front of you. Do you mean to say you've passed him over? It's a perfectly magnificent face.” “Why, you dunder-headed, go-to-meeting Methodist! Don't you know a Catholic priest when you see one?” “A priest? By Jove, so he is! Yes, I forgot; vow of chastity, and all that sort of thing. Well then, we'll be charitable and suppose the boy's his nephew.” “What idiotic people!” Arthur whispered, looking up with dancing eyes. “Still, it is kind of them to think me like you; I wish I were really your nephew----Padre, what is the matter? How white you are!”