"Why have you told me so useless a story at all, then?" said the father, again with some sternness of voice and manner. "Evidently Vincenza was fond of romancing; and, probably--probably----" He did not finish his sentence; but he was thinking--"Probably the mad fancy of that English lady about her child--which I well remember--suggested the story to Vincenza as a means of getting money. I wish I had her here." "I have told you the story, Reverend Father," said the old woman, whose voice was growing very weak, "because I know that I am dying, and that the boy will be left alone in the world, which is a sad fate for any boy, Father, whether he is Vincenza's child or the son of the English lady. He is a good lad, Reverend Father, strong, and obedient, and patient; if the good Fathers would but take charge of him, and see that he is taught a trade, or put to some useful work! He would be no burden to you, my poor, little Dino!" For a moment the Benedictine's eyes flashed with a quick fire; then he looked down and stood perfectly still, with his hands folded and his head bent. A new idea had darted across his mind. Did the story that he had just heard offer him no opportunity of advancing the interests of his Order and of his Church? He turned as if to ask another question, but he was too late. Old Assunta was fast falling into the stupor that is but the precursor of death. He called her attendant, and waited for a time to see whether consciousness was likely to return. But he waited in vain. Assunta said nothing more. The boy of whom she had spoken came and wept at her bed-side, and Padre Cristoforo observed him curiously. He was well worthy of the monk's gaze. He was light and supple in figure, perfectly formed, with a clear brown skin and a face such as one sees in early Italian paintings of angelic singing-boys--a face with broad, serious brows, soft, oval cheeks, curved lips, and delightfully dimpled chin. He had large, brown eyes and a mass of tangled, curling hair. The priest noted that his slender limbs were graceful as those of a young fawn, that his hands and feet were small and well shaped, and that his appearance betokened perfect health--a slight spareness and sharpness of outline being the only trace which poverty seemed to have left upon him. The sub-Prior of San Stefano saw these things; and meditated upon certain possibilities in the future. He went next day to old Assunta's funeral, and laid his hand on Dino's shoulder as the boy was turning disconsolately from his grandmother's grave. "My child," he said, gently, "you are alone." "Yes, Father," said Dino, with a stifled sob. "Will you come with me to the monastery? I think we can find you a home. You have nowhere to go, poor child, and you will be weary and hungry before long. Will you come?" "There is nothing in the world that I should like so well!" cried the boy, ardently. "Come then," said the Padre, with one of his subtle smiles. "We will go together."