“This will be my only chance of a quiet talk with you for a long time,” Montanelli began. “You will go back to your college work and friends; and I, too, shall be very busy this winter. I want to understand quite clearly what our position as regards each other is to be; and so, if you----” He stopped for a moment and then continued more slowly: “If you feel that you can still trust me as you used to do, I want you to tell me more definitely than that night in the seminary garden, how far you have gone.” Arthur looked out across the water, listened quietly, and said nothing. “I want to know, if you will tell me,” Montanelli went on; “whether you have bound yourself by a vow, or--in any way.” “There is nothing to tell, dear Padre; I have not bound myself, but I am bound.” “I don't understand------” “What is the use of vows? They are not what binds people. If you feel in a certain way about a thing, that binds you to it; if you don't feel that way, nothing else can bind you.” “Do you mean, then, that this thing--this--feeling is quite irrevocable? Arthur, have you thought what you are saying?” Arthur turned round and looked straight into Montanelli's eyes. “Padre, you asked me if I could trust you. Can you not trust me, too? Indeed, if there were anything to tell, I would tell it to you; but there is no use in talking about these things. I have not forgotten what you said to me that night; I shall never forget it. But I must go my way and follow the light that I see.” Montanelli picked a rose from the bush, pulled off the petals one by one, and tossed them into the water. “You are right, carino. Yes, we will say no more about these things; it seems there is indeed no help in many words----Well, well, let us go in.” CHAPTER III.