in the far-away land of the western world.  But, if Ramoni was but seldom in the cloister, he did not avoid Father Denfili.  The old blind priest seemed to meet him everywhere, in the afternoons on the Pincio, in the churches where he preached, in the subdued crowds at ecclesiastical assemblies.  Once Ramoni caught a glimpse of his face lifted toward him during a conference; and a remembrance of that old look in the cloister garden gave him the sensation of belief that the old General could see, even though Ramoni himself, was the only one whom he saw.

On the day the letter from the Vatican came, Father Ramoni, detained in the cloister by the expected visit of a prelate who had expressed his desire to meet the missionary of Marqua, passed Father Denfili on his way to the reception-room.  While Father Ramoni, summoning his secretary to bring some photographs for better explanation of the South American missions, went on his way, the blind man groped along the wall till he reached the General’s office.  He had come to the door when he felt that undercurrent of anxiety which showed itself on the white faces of the General and his assistant, who stood gazing mutely at the letter the former held.  He heard the General call Father Tomasso.  “Take this to Father Pietro, my son,” he said.  Then he listened to the younger priest’s retreating footsteps.

Father Tomasso, frightened by the unwonted strangeness of the General’s tone, carried the atmosphere of tense and troubled excitement with him when he entered the room the prelate was just leaving.  Father Pietro glanced up at him from the table where he was returning to their case the photographs of Marqua.  Tomasso laid the letter before him and left the room just as Father Ramoni, bidding his visitor a gay good-bye, turned back.

[Illustration:  “I can’t take it,” he was sobbing, “it’s a mistake, a terrible mistake.”]

Father Pietro was taking the letter from its large square envelope.  He read it with puzzled wonder rising to his eyes.  Before he came to its end he was on his feet.

“No!  No!” he cried.  “It is impossible.  It is a mistake.”

Father Ramoni turned quickly.  The man who had been his faithful servant for ten years in Marqua was very dear to him.  “What is a mistake, Pietro?” he asked, coming to the table.

“The Consistory,” Father Pietro stammered, “the Consistory has made a mistake.  They have done an impossible thing.  They have mixed our names.  This letter to the General—­this letter—­” he pointed to the document on the table “—­says that I have been made Archbishop of Marqua.”

Ramoni took the letter.  As he read it he knew what Pietro had not known.  The news was genuine.  The name signed at the letter’s end guaranteed that.  Ramoni caught the edge of the table.  The pain of the blow gripped him relentlessly and he knew that it was a pain that would stay.  He had been passed over, ignored, set down for Pietro, who sat weeping beside the table, his head buried in his hands.