“I--I like him very much, I think--at least--no, I am not quite sure that I do. But it is difficult to say, after seeing a person once.” Montanelli sat beating his hand gently on the arm of his chair; a habit with him when anxious or perplexed. “About this journey to Rome,” he began again; “if you think there is any--well--if you wish it, Arthur, I will write and say I cannot go.” “Padre! But the Vatican------” “The Vatican will find someone else. I can send apologies.” “But why? I can't understand.” Montanelli drew one hand across his forehead. “I am anxious about you. Things keep coming into my head--and after all, there is no need for me to go------” “But the bishopric----” “Oh, Arthur! what shall it profit me if I gain a bishopric and lose----” He broke off. Arthur had never seen him like this before, and was greatly troubled. “I can't understand,” he said. “Padre, if you could explain to me more--more definitely, what it is you think------” “I think nothing; I am haunted with a horrible fear. Tell me, is there any special danger?” “He has heard something,” Arthur thought, remembering the whispers of a projected revolt. But the secret was not his to tell; and he merely answered: “What special danger should there be?” “Don't question me--answer me!” Montanelli's voice was almost harsh in its eagerness. “Are you in danger? I don't want to know your secrets; only tell me that!” “We are all in God's hands, Padre; anything may always happen. But I know of no reason why I should not be here alive and safe when you come back.” “When I come back----Listen, carino; I will leave it in your hands. You need give me no reason; only say to me, 'Stay,' and I will give up this journey. There will be no injury to anyone, and I shall feel you are safer if I have you beside me.” This kind of morbid fancifulness was so foreign to Montanelli's character that Arthur looked at him with grave anxiety. “Padre, I am sure you are not well. Of course you must go to Rome, and try to have a thorough rest and get rid of your sleeplessness and headaches.” “Very well,” Montanelli interrupted, as if tired of the subject; “I will start by the early coach to-morrow morning.” Arthur looked at him, wondering. “You had something to tell me?” he said. “No, no; nothing more--nothing of any consequence.” There was a startled, almost terrified look in his face. A few days after Montanelli's departure Arthur went to fetch a book from the seminary library, and met Father Cardi on the stairs. “Ah, Mr. Burton!” exclaimed the Director; “the very person I wanted. Please come in and help me out of a difficulty.” He opened the study door, and Arthur followed him into the room with a foolish, secret sense of resentment. It seemed hard to see this dear study, the Padre's own private sanctum, invaded by a stranger.