When she reached the priest’s house Beni-Mora was astir with a pleasant bustle of life. The military note pealed through its symphony. Spahis were galloping along the white roads. Tirailleurs went by bearing despatches. Zouaves stood under the palms, staring calmly at the morning, their sunburned hands loosely clasped upon muskets whose butts rested in the sand. But Domini scarcely noticed the brilliant gaiety of the life about her. She was preoccupied, even sad. Yet, as she entered the little garden of the priest, and tapped gently at his door, a sensation of hope sprang up in her heart, born of the sustaining power of her religion. An Arab boy answered her knock, said that the Father was in and led her at once to a small, plainly-furnished room, with whitewashed walls, and a window opening on to an enclosure at the back, where several large palm trees reared their tufted heads above the smoothly-raked sand. In a moment the priest came in, smiling with pleasure and holding out his hands in welcome. “Father,” she said at once, “I am come to have a little talk with you. Have you a few moments to give me?” “Sit down, my child,” he said. He drew forward a straw chair for her and took one opposite. “You are not in trouble?” “I don’t know why I should be, but----” She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “I want to tell you a little about my life.” He looked at her kindly without a word. His eyes were an invitation for her to speak, and, without further invitation, in as few and simple words as possible, she told him why she had come to Beni-Mora, and something of her parents’ tragedy and its effect upon her. “I wanted to renew my heart, to find myself,” she said. “My life has been cold, careless. I never lost my faith, but I almost forgot that I had it. I made little use of it. I let it rust.” “Many do that, but a time comes when they feel that the great weapon with which alone we can fight the sorrows and dangers of the world must be kept bright, or it may fail us in the hour of need.” “Yes.” “And this is an hour of need for you. But, indeed, is there ever an hour that is not?” “I feel to-day, I----” She stopped, suddenly conscious of the vagueness of her apprehension. It made her position difficult, speech hard for her. She felt that she wanted something, yet scarcely knew what, or exactly why she had come. “I have been saying good-bye to Count Anteoni,” she resumed. “He has gone on a desert journey.” “For long?” “I don’t know, but I feel that it will be.” “He comes and goes very suddenly. Often he is here and I do not even know it.” “He is a strange man, but I think he is a good man.” As she spoke about him she began to realise that something in him had roused the desire in her to come to the priest. “And he sees far,” she added. She looked steadily at the priest, who was waiting quietly to hear more. She was glad he did not trouble her mind just then by trying to help her to go on, to be explicit.