The artist, having gone through the beads of his rosary, rose to his feet and addressed Daphne. "I trust, Miss Leslie," he said with a smile, "that you will forgive me for having canonised you without either papal sanction or your own." Like a good Catholic, he put the papal sanction first and Daphne's next. "Last autumn," continued Angelo, "I was requested by a priest of this cathedral, Father Ignatius by name, to paint a Madonna. Not thinking that you, Miss Leslie, would ever visit this place, I took your face as my model, for, pardon my boldness, I could not find a more beautiful one." Daphne looked extremely grave. "It is sacrilege," she said in a tone of awe. "What would your priest say if he knew of this?" "He would pardon the sacrilege--if sacrilege it be--that gave him so fair a Madonna. If the divine Raphael introduced the heads of beggars in his delineations of patriarchs in the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel, may I not employ the living face in my picture?" Daphne did not reply to this question, but, still very grave, continued: "To be recognised by staring, gaping crowds in the streets of this town as the original of their cathedral Madonna is a kind of fame I could very well dispense with." "They will say that the saint has left the skies to shed the sunlight of her presence on earth," he answered. He accompanied this extravaganza with a smile, but it was a melancholy one. Clearly Daphne was not pleased with the act that had elevated her into a saint. The artist was not slow to perceive the light of triumph in my eyes, and his face darkened. "I have committed an error," he said with a deferential bow. "I must ask pardon. I could not know when I painted this Madonna that you would ever set foot within this edifice." "But you could at least have told me before setting out what to expect." The artist was the picture of despair. "I have done wrong in your eyes--English Protestants perhaps regard it as a sin, but believe me, the practice is not unknown among us Italian artists. Let the example set by others exculpate me to some extent." The melancholy of his face and the humility of his manner softened Daphne's displeasure, and, resuming her wonted air, she said quickly: "Let us say no more. What is done cannot be undone. You have my forgiveness, and as a proof you shall show me round the cathedral, if you will." A look of delight mantled the face of the artist, and he offered her his arm, which she readily took. My uncle, saying that he preferred to rest in some quiet spot, and that he would await their return, had already taken a secluded seat, and I moved off to join him. "Are you not going to accompany us, Frank?" said Daphne in a tone of surprise. "Thank you, no," I returned loftily. "Mr. Vasari will not mind if I remain here till your return." She made no reply, and, escorted slowly by her cicerone along an aisle adorned with statuary and pictures, was soon deep in the mysteries of ecclesiological lore.