dreams of seeing her great picture borne away out of Rome to Paris, and London, to be gazed upon by thousands who would take its lesson home to their hearts and lives.  Italy was merely a village in the area of her aspiring mind; but she built her “castles in the air” alone; and never by so much as the smallest hint allowed anyone to guess the far reaching scope of her intentions.  Truth to tell, she had obtained very little encouragement during her long days and months of work, though in the sweetness of her nature she pleased herself by imagining that Florian Varillo gave her a complete and perfect sympathy.  Yet even with Florian, one or two casual remarks he had let fall lightly and unthinkingly, had vaguely startled her, and set her wondering, “Perhaps he does not think much of my abilities after all”—­and had caused her for once to be closely reserved upon the subject and treatment of her work, and to refuse a glimpse of it even to him who was her elect Beloved.  She had thought he would perhaps have been pained at this inviolate secrecy on her part,—­she had feared he might take offence at finding the doors of her studio always locked,—­but on the contrary he appeared quite amused at her uncommunicative humour, and jested about it as if she were a little child playing in a dark corner at some forbidden game.  She was somewhat surprised at this,—­the more so as he frequently spoke of the importance of his own pictures for the Roman “Art Season,”—­pictures to which he really gave the attentive discussion and consideration a man always bestows on matters of his personal business—­but often when Angela’s work was spoken of, he smiled with a kindly tolerance, as one who should say, “Dear girl!  How sweetly she embroiders her simple sampler!” And yet again, he never failed, when asked about it in Angela’s presence, to say that he was “sure Donna Sovrani would astonish the world by what she was doing!” So that one never quite knew where to have him, his nature being that curious compound of obsequious servility and intense self-love which so often distinguishes the Italian temperament.  Angela however put every shadow of either wonder or doubt as to his views, entirely aside,—­and worked on with an earnest hand and trusting heart, faithfully and with a grand patience and self-control seldom found either in masculine or feminine heroes.  Sometimes her spirit sank a little, as now, when her father told her that her picture would remain unsold in one of the galleries—­but all the same, some force within her urged her to go on with her intention steadily, and leave all results to God.  And the tears that had sprung to her eyes at the smart of old Sovrani’s rough speech, soon returned to their source; and she was quite her composed sweet self again when her uncle the Cardinal, accompanied by Manuel, entered the room, holding an open letter in his hand, and looking strangely agitated.

“Brother, here is a matter which I cannot possibly understand,” he said, “Monsignor Gherardi writes here to congratulate me upon a miracle I have worked in Rouen!—­and summons me at once to the presence of His Holiness!  What can it mean?  I have performed no miracle!  Surely some jest is being played with me,—­and one most unbecoming to a man of Gherardi’s position and influence!”