“It was this way, Padre,” he began, with his eyes on the ground. “When I was preparing for the entrance examination last autumn, I got to know a good many of the students; you remember? Well, some of them began to talk to me about--all these things, and lent me books. But I didn't care much about it; I always wanted to get home quick to mother. You see, she was quite alone among them all in that dungeon of a house; and Julia's tongue was enough to kill her. Then, in the winter, when she got so ill, I forgot all about the students and their books; and then, you know, I left off coming to Pisa altogether. I should have talked to mother if I had thought of it; but it went right out of my head. Then I found out that she was going to die----You know, I was almost constantly with her towards the end; often I would sit up the night, and Gemma Warren would come in the day to let me get to sleep. Well, it was in those long nights; I got thinking about the books and about what the students had said--and wondering--whether they were right and--what--Our Lord would have said about it all.” “Did you ask Him?” Montanelli's voice was not quite steady. “Often, Padre. Sometimes I have prayed to Him to tell me what I must do, or to let me die with mother. But I couldn't find any answer.” “And you never said a word to me. Arthur, I hoped you could have trusted me.” “Padre, you know I trust you! But there are some things you can't talk about to anyone. I--it seemed to me that no one could help me--not even you or mother; I must have my own answer straight from God. You see, it is for all my life and all my soul.” Montanelli turned away and stared into the dusky gloom of the magnolia branches. The twilight was so dim that his figure had a shadowy look, like a dark ghost among the darker boughs. “And then?” he asked slowly. “And then--she died. You know, I had been up the last three nights with her----” He broke off and paused a moment, but Montanelli did not move. “All those two days before they buried her,” Arthur went on in a lower voice, “I couldn't think about anything. Then, after the funeral, I was ill; you remember, I couldn't come to confession.” “Yes; I remember.” “Well, in the night I got up and went into mother's room. It was all empty; there was only the great crucifix in the alcove. And I thought perhaps God would help me. I knelt down and waited--all night. And in the morning when I came to my senses--Padre, it isn't any use; I can't explain. I can't tell you what I saw--I hardly know myself. But I know that God has answered me, and that I dare not disobey Him.” For a moment they sat quite silent in the darkness. Then Montanelli turned and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder.