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 the scanty fire in the great vaulted kitchen of the old villa. All, all, were gone; the villa had fallen to decay; the orchard and the garden were no more; only the solemn fir trees and the dark blue peaks of the Apennines remained unchanged. And here was a girl with the same eyes, dark, yet softly bright, of his playfellow and more than brother of fifty years ago!

Fifi spoke no word. The only sound in the small, vaulted room was the faint crackling of the burning logs, across which a brilliant bar of sunlight had crept stealthily. As the Holy Father paused and looked at Fifi, there was a gentle deprecation in his glance; he seemed to be saying: "Bear with age a while, O glorious and pathetic youth! Let me once more dream your dreams, and lay aside the burden of greatness." And the old man did not continue until he saw in Fifi's eyes that she was not wearied with him; then he spoke again.

"When we were ten years old we were taught to serve on the altar. Barnabas served with such recollection, such beautiful precision, that it was like prayer to see him. He was a handsome boy, and in his white surplice and red cassock, his face