IN the quiet of the sacristy the priest listened to the stories of Armando and the banker, and gained a clear knowledge of Juno’s fantastic plot to secure a marble portrait and a rich husband. So true did it all ring that Father Nicodemo saw no pressing need to search the records of the city’s Bureau of Vital Statistics. He told Signor Tomato it would be enough that he bring the husband in evidence, and he, the priest, would see to it that the woman was confronted with him and the truth drawn from her own lips. The holy man saw in their timely interruption an act of Providence that had saved San Patrizio from being the scene of a horrid sin. But to Armando the situation had nothing to offer of comfort. The work of his life had come to naught. The bust that was to make him a high figure in the American market had been turned with cruel suddenness to a bit of unvalued stone. Oh, the mockery of it! Instead of the First Lady of the Land, he had given his heart and hand and brain to what?--the Last Lady of Mulberry! To the sculptor’s plaint the banker added his, and the priest, feeling for them warmly, and knowing no deed that could help, offered them the anodyne of words. Fellows in misery, they left the church together, after Armando had searched for and recovered the valise that he had flung down, he knew not where, when he followed Juno to the altar. Side by side they walked through Mulberry, exchanging doleful tales. They were passing before Casa Di Bello, when Signor Tomato halted abruptly and said: “Behold, comrade, the root of all our woe! She wanted to get into that house. Bertino has told me all. But Fate has beaten her as well as us. ’Twixt the wish and the prize high mountains arise.” They stood a moment looking up at the windows, when the massive door swung open, and Marianna, clearing the steps at a bound, threw herself into the arms of Armando, who, by the lucky chance of having just set down his burdensome valise, was ready to receive her with equal fervour. “Joy! Grand joy!” she cried. “He is married, and we are saved.” “Excuse me,” said the banker. “I will go. _Addio_, my friend; we shall meet again.” Muttering a proverb, he made off for the Caffè of the Three Gardens, where he intended to put up for the night in order to be on hand for the early morning market and dispose of his remaining dandelions. “Saved?” said Armando in mournful wonder. “Glory to the Splendid Name, I have found you--you are left to me, my precious, but all else is lost. You remember my Juno and the Peacock?” “The hogs of Genoa had no eyes for its beauty,” she answered. “Well, I have made another Juno.” “_Dio!_ What do you mean?” “The Presidentessa is a Juno.”