“I cannot comprehend you, Winthrop,” his companion returned, and looking perplexed. “When were you married?” “A little less than two years ago.” “But I thought you lost your wife—that she perished in some fire.” “So I believed until recently; but she was saved and I came upon her in an almost miraculous way in Paris, less than two months since. Sister Angela, to whom you and I both owe so much, was my wife!” “Winthrop! you take away my breath. I cannot believe it!” “It is a long story, but if you can spare me a few minutes I will give you a brief outline of it,” Dr. Winthrop responded, and then proceeded to tell how he had found Salome and something of her previous history. After all was told he insisted that his friend should go up to their parlor and be introduced, and the young man could scarcely credit his senses when he was ushered into the presence of the beautiful woman and Dr. Winthrop smilingly remarked: “Tillinghast, allow me to present you to my wife; but I hardly think you will need any introduction.” Salome greeted him with charming cordiality, and laughingly exclaimed: “You hardly recognize Sister Angela, do you, Mr. Tillinghast?” “It does not seem possible that you can be one and the same,” he replied, as he bowed low over her hand; “but, Mrs. Winthrop, if it is true—and I cannot doubt it—I owe you a great deal.” “You surely do, Fred; you and many others would have died but for the faithful nursing which you had,” said Dr. Winthrop gravely. “Pray do not give me more credit than I deserve, True,” his wife interposed, flushing slightly, “for I am sure that the treatment which his conscientious and intelligent physician bestowed upon him was no less efficacious. But,” she added, to change the subject, as she turned again to her guest, “I think Dr. Winthrop is very fortunate in finding you here. I, too, am very happy to meet you again.” Could it be possible that this lovely girl, with her perfect composure, her high-bred manner, her graceful figure, and beautiful face, was the quiet, demure, and self-contained nun who, in her unbecoming dress, had done so much for him in Paris? It was hard for him to believe it. “Thank you,” he replied; “but I assure you, I regard myself as the favored one, and I have been trying to persuade the doctor to come home with me. Won’t you second me, Mrs. Winthrop, please? It will give us all great pleasure to entertain you.” “You are very good, Fred, and we appreciate your hospitality,” Dr. Winthrop interposed; “but I think we will remain where we are for the present.” “Then you will at least honor my mother’s reception to-night,” the young man eagerly urged. “She is to entertain the American Consul, and all America will be there—at least all that is resident in Rome at present—and I am sure she would be greatly disappointed—knowing you were here—if you were not present.” Dr. Winthrop turned to Salome. “Are you too weary from your journey to go, dear?” he asked.