The day was sunny, the breeze soft and warm, the waters of the fountain rippled pleasantly, and the shadows danced to and fro on the greensward. Repose in the shade was much more agreeable than walking in the sunlight, and I found my five minutes extending to ten, and, while dreamily thinking that it was time to resume my quest, I dropped off to sleep. How long I continued in a state of repose I cannot tell. I was aroused by the sound of voices; and, glancing out from my covert, I saw Daphne and Angelo standing beside the fountain. The artist was labouring under some deep emotion: his dark hair hung negligently over his brow and eyes; his attire was in a frayed and disarranged state; for disorder and melancholy he looked a very Hamlet. Evidently neither he nor Daphne was aware of my proximity. I hesitated to play the spy, but by doing so I might obtain a clue to Angelo's expulsion from the Communion--a clue that probably could be obtained in no other way, since his affection for Daphne might induce him to impart to her what he would withhold from my uncle and myself. This thought acted as a salve to my conscience, and, drawing my head within the foliage, I resolved to remain a silent and hidden spectator of the interview, in direct contravention of my promise to Daphne not to leave her alone with the artist. It was not a very honourable position I candidly admit. But I paid the penalty for it, by overhearing that which made me most miserable. "I am afraid, Miss Leslie," the artist was saying--and his voice sounded so strange and hoarse that I scarcely recognised it to be his--"that the incident that happened this morning in the cathedral has tended to prejudice me in your esteem." Daphne's silence seemed to imply assent to this. "If it be this that causes you to look on me with a different face, it admits of an easy explanation. Father Ignatius recognised in you the original of my Madonna. He considers me guilty of sacrilege. My refusal to atone for it at the confessional excludes me from the communion of the Church. You know what these priests are, Miss Leslie," he continued with a sneer. "Meat in Lent, absence from confessional, a thousand similar trifles, are deadly sins in their eyes." Daphne still maintained silence. He took from his bosom a crucifix and kissed it. "On this crucifix, image of our God in agony, holiest symbol of the Catholic faith, I swear by my hope of salvation that I speak truth when I say that my exclusion from the Mass rests on no other ground than the one I have stated." I did not believe him; and if he had repeated his statement twenty times, and sworn it on his crucifix twenty times, I would not have believed him. A subtle stroke on his part, this: to represent to Daphne that his tribute to her beauty had cost him nothing less than--'the communion of the saints!' It might move her to pity, and we all know to what pity is akin.