“Not a bit harder!” Arthur broke in passionately. “They always did hate me and always will--it doesn't matter what I do. Besides, how can James seriously object to my going away with you--with my father confessor?” “He is a Protestant, remember. However, you had better write to him, and we will wait to hear what he thinks. But you must not be impatient, my son; it matters just as much what you do, whether people hate you or love you.” The rebuke was so gently given that Arthur hardly coloured under it. “Yes, I know,” he answered, sighing; “but it is so difficult----” “I was sorry you could not come to me on Tuesday evening,” Montanelli said, abruptly introducing a new subject. “The Bishop of Arezzo was here, and I should have liked you to meet him.” “I had promised one of the students to go to a meeting at his lodgings, and they would have been expecting me.” “What sort of meeting?” Arthur seemed embarrassed by the question. “It--it was n-not a r-regular meeting,” he said with a nervous little stammer. “A student had come from Genoa, and he made a speech to us--a-a sort of--lecture.” “What did he lecture about?” Arthur hesitated. “You won't ask me his name, Padre, will you? Because I promised----” “I will ask you no questions at all, and if you have promised secrecy of course you must not tell me; but I think you can almost trust me by this time.” “Padre, of course I can. He spoke about--us and our duty to the people--and to--our own selves; and about--what we might do to help----” “To help whom?” “The contadini--and----” “And?” “Italy.” There was a long silence. “Tell me, Arthur,” said Montanelli, turning to him and speaking very gravely, “how long have you been thinking about this?” “Since--last winter.” “Before your mother's death? And did she know of it?” “N-no. I--I didn't care about it then.” “And now you--care about it?” Arthur pulled another handful of bells off the foxglove.