from boyhood for the religious life and though he had lapsed and fallen, the four years spent among the rigid Trappists on the lonely Sardinian coast had made that episode of the old castle in the Umbrian Mountains like a dream, and a certain monkish dread of contact with the world made him recoil from entering it again.

"Yes," replied the Abbot, as he looked into the wondering, searching face," you not only inherit the property, but the title as well. You are to discard your habit, marry, and continue your distinguished line."

Fra Felice stood still, staring as if the news had rendered him dumb, and the Abbot, seeing that he was utterly confounded, said kindly, "Kneel, my son, and receive my blessing for your new life."

Obediently he knelt. The Abbot stood, and as he blessed him, looked down upon the pure chiseled features, the lowered eyes with their sweeping lashes and the noble brow of the man before him, and his extraordinary beauty struck him; involuntarily the stern ascetic added a mental prayer: "And may keep thy soul as fair as He has made thee fair of face." Fra Felice rose and the Abbot, bowing, said, "I salute you, Prince Estori."

God

Not until he heard himself thus addressed did he comprehend the full import of what had happened. The sound of the beloved, familiar title had a magical effect; it sent the sluggish blood leaping through his veins. Straightening his shoulders, he stood erect, and, throwing back his head with the old proud gesture, he exclaimed: "Viva il Papa! Viva Roma!! Viva Estori!!!"

* Long live the Pope.

*

CHAPTER XXVIII

TWO LITTLE SHOES

And as Hope bends low at parting
For a death remembered tone,
We searched the land that Beauty
And Love had made their own.

And scarce our mood was broken,
Of near impending loss,

To find at the bend of the pathway

A Station of the Cross.

JOHNSON.

Rome had been stirred by the Estori yacht tragedy. Fra Felice Estori, the next of kin, had mysteriously disappeared eight years before, and presumably was dead, but the daily papers hinted that the Vatican knew where to find him, and the gossips were watching to see if the " Osservatore Romano" would confirm this report.

Meanwhile avoiding notoriety, the heir of the Estoris was quietly installed in the ancestral palazzo trying to accustom himself to this tremendous change and new surroundings, and he roamed through the rooms with their atmosphere of serene dignity trying to realize that the obscure monk, exiled under a cloud, had suddenly become a rich and influential nobleman.

In the great salone family portraits of cardinals, court ladies and princes in the costume of the "Noble Guard," stared down upon him, making him feel like an intruder. A long line of crystal chandeliers were multiplied in mirrors at either end, and he would start as he caught sight of his own reflection in a black suit of the latest cut, and it would substantiate the idea that this was mourning for his dead kinsmen, and that he was in truth himself.

Again the new prince would stand in the antechamber of his

home, his, this lonely, luxurious palace, and his eyes would rest with pride upon the arms of the Estori emblazoned underneath a crimson canopy supported by gilded spears, and it would remind him that he was the last representative and so soon as the period of mourning should expire, he must marry.

But he could not forget his lost love; she was constantly in his thoughts; he was considering a trip to look for her, but here his amour propre came in. She had deserted him in a heartless, cruel, and unwarranted manner, and might even now be in company with his false friend Fauvel, and though Margherita was the only being upon earth he longed for, circumstances had changed; the woman he made his wife must be worthy of the noble name he had to give her.

How he and Margherita had looked forward to the day when they might be free to come out of their seclusion and be truly man and wife before the world! Ah, well, that dream was over! Some lady of wealth and position would be chosen for him by those who were taking an active interest in his affairs, and marriage now would be cold-blooded, diplomatic, and perfunctory.

A footman appeared with a note on a silver salver and waited while Prince Estori opened and read it.

"Oh," he exclaimed, half to himself, "Padre Carlo dying and asks to see me! Yes, I will come, but — but —” It was the one spot in Rome he most wished to avoid; it was too full of memories, but, yes, he must go.

"Will his Excellency have the car?" asked the man.

"No, no," Estori answered; "I will walk," and the man bringing his hat, he left the house.

On the other side of the city Margaret Randolph waited existing only for Fauvel's letters which had not been encouraging, but to-day he had wired: "Will be back to-night with some news." Margaret was too nervous to remain in the hotel; not knowing where she would go, she set out and by some impelling force her steps turned in the direction of the Colosseum,

past the Arch of Titus, and up the old walk where a "Via Crucis " met her eyes. What did those two words, some news," mean? Fra Felice had once intended to become a priest. He had never written her or tried in any way to hear from her since he had been back among the monks. So even should he be the heir of the Estoris, was it not too late? Up the hill she walked, the Stations of the Cross leading up also, being drawn as by a magnet to the monastery at the end. And was a monastery to be the end? She sat down upon a flat stone and buried her face in her hands.

As Margaret reached the top of the hill a stranger began the ascent below. What memories this place recalled to him! He had been happy here until a young girl had found her way into this picturesque path, and he had learned heights and depths of a love that had changed the whole course of his life.

Margaret heard steps approaching and put down her thick mourning veil. There was an easy, patrician swing to the man's long, graceful strides. Everything about him was familiar except his dress.

She rose suddenly. "Signore" she ventured. He stopped and raised his hat. His hair was black and his eyes were tawny brown, his features classic, his mouth though beautiful, had a rather stern expression, unusual in one still young.

Signorina?" he responded, waiting.

The rich tone of his voice was unmistakable.

Leone," she whispered questioningly, "Leone?" "Who are you?" he asked.

She raised her veil and confronted him.

"Margherita!" he cried, in unspeakable agitation. "Margherita mia!" He could scarcely restrain himself from catching her in his arms, but she had treated him shamefully, and his years of suffering and self-control now came to his aid, and as she moved toward him he retreated.

Why, Leone," she exclaimed, in broken bewilderment, "are you not glad I have come come "In her nervous excite

ment all the past of their separation had become but a dark blur and what was clear was that her beloved stood before her.

"To break my heart a second time?"

“No,” she cried; " to clear your name."

"That is past and gone, Margherita; I have lived it down." She fell back, crushed and numb.

Could this distant man be her Leone, her darling, her love? "What brought you here?" he asked.

"To-to find you, I believe," she faltered.

"But it is not officially known that I am in Rome. My dear old Superior, Padre Carlo, is dying- he wished to see me once more, and I have made all haste to get to him. Where have you been all these years?" The question came out despite his will.

"At my own home in America."

"But no Carlotta said

He stopped, pale as death,

and though his speech was confused, his eyes looked sternly into hers.

"What did Carlotta say?" sharply.

"( That you had gone to Paris with Fauvel."

"Leone!" This time Margaret drew away from him in horror. "Leone, and you believed her!"

"I wrote asking you to deny the charge, but you never did." "I never received the letter! Nor had any word from you whatever,” she answered indignantly. "I meant to come right back to you, but I was taken ill Clemente wrote you had

drowned yourself. I wrote you three letters which were returned. I've mourned for you for four years remained unmarried — faithful to you even in death-" her sweet voice broke into a pathetic appeal, "Oh, Leone, don't you love me any more?'

The ground seemed shaking under his feet with the great wave of returning confidence. "Love you, Margherita - love you?" he said. Ah, that is a poor, weak word! But - but

I must go in to the Padre at once, he is dying; I dare not