of his, so far as he could see, could hasten the fulfilment of his hopes. He had no money, and besides the advocates, who must be feed, public opinion in Rome was greatly disposed to believe that the very Tribunale itself was not proof against the eloquence of golden arguments. The young man was not an ideal hero, but a young Roman, brought up in the habits of his countrymen. If he had sometimes felt a passing enthusiasm for a special enterprise, he had never loved work, nor found a resource in it from other troubles. He had always been ready to make festa, like all his comrades. Perhaps few of us are deeply enamoured of our day's work when we are twentyand an unsophisticated Italian mind does not comprehend the sentiment. To be sure, labour is a curse and not a blessing. But Francisco was not only idle-he was miserable, discontented, restless. Things that were very sufficient for the orphan of St Michele, did not at all answer the Duchessa's son. He felt the frank accost of his acquaintances almost as an insult, and chafed at all his surroundings. This wonderful secret might make him great, but it had not made him happy.

He was in this condition of mind when he received an unexpected visit from Gigi. Gigi had been pondering over the strange turn of affairs since ever he heard of this secret, and the good fellow had less patience than his coadjutors. He had set his whole heart upon that festa which should drive all Rocca out of its wits and illuminate the dark side of Monte Cavo. He was burning to set about this congenial business, to consult old Chico of Frascati about the fireworks, and to arrange a gigantic tombola. Such a glorious prospect was not to be postponed. Nevertheless Gigi, when he thought it over, acknowledged the difficulties. He could have brought himself, if not his wife, to consent to that mortgage of the vineyard which Mariuccia suggested. He could have screwed his resolution to the point of selling his donkeys-but, vast sum as these expedients must raise, would it do? At last Gigi came to a resolution which relieved his mind

mightily. He slept soundly the night after that comfortable suggestion, and the next morning rose early, dressed himself carefully, and set out for Rome. When he had climbed with his heavy shoes up the long stairs, and, knocking at Francisco's door, asked "Permesso?" humbly outside, Francisco was, as usual, in the loggia, leaning over, and appearing to watch the passengers below. He came in reluctantly, with dreamy eyes, at that sound, and met the eager peasant with the excited languor of a lotus eater, lost in his own intoxication, and impatient of any appeal from the world without.

"Don Francisco! Eccellenza! Signore mio!" cried Gigi, with a gasp of earnestness, come out with me to Rocca, and speak to Monsignore! consult with Monsignore, noble Don! There is nobody like Monsignore for knowing everything

for telling one what it is best to do. My mind is at ease since I thought of it. Many a time has he asked after the little Chichino, and how it went with him. Come and consult Monsignore, illustrious Don!"

"Gigi, my good fellow, accommodate yourself and take breath,' said Francisco, thrusting a chair towards him. "Did Monsignore send thee to me?"

Nay, nay, per Bacco, it was the holy saints that sent me!" cried Gigi. "Yesterday we made a procession, as your Excellency will perhaps remember we had the usage of doing; and in the church, opposite the blessed image of St Francisco, with his stigmata made in gold, and rays round his head that might warm one in a cold day-which was set up by Monsignore himself, as thou well knowest-what should come into my head, Signore mio, as clear as though the holy saint, who is thy patron, had said it in my ear, but 'Send him to Monsignore. Eccellenza, believe me, I could no more say my prayers, nor even listen to the holy litanies. Every time my eyes turned to the blessed saint, thy patron, the words. returned to me again, 'Send him to Monsignore! And, to be sure, when one thinks of it, where could you go

so well to ask advice? There is not a frate in the convent so humble as Monsignore, nor a cardinal so wise in all the sacred college. There is never a quarrel in Rocca, nor even in Albano itself, but they carry it to Monsignore, and he decides what is to be done, and makes the peace. And he is a judge himself, as your Excellency knows. Come with me, Chichino mio-I should say, noble Don-come with me! Monsignore is at Rocca, and will hear all thou hast to say.

Francisco took two or three rapid short promenades through his room. He was irritated and impatient at the interruption, but it roused him; and besides, if he had not been rather angry to think that the idea originated with Gigi, it was unquestion ably a very good suggestion. The young man's pride, however, had received a stimulation too extraordinary to make him yield at once to so humble a counsellor. He stopped loftily when he came in front of his easel, took up his palette-to set which had been all his morning's work-and made a few energetic touches at a copy which he had been languidly dawdling over for some days. "I will think of it," said

Francisco, putting his head on one side, and retiring a few steps to see the effect of his sudden exertion. "I will think of it," he repeated, after five minutes of such devoted work as he had not accomplished for some weeks past. Gigi made a step backwards, and, watching him-confounded by his coldness and overawed by his talents-the honest fellow was deeply impressed by the imposing indifference of his little Chichino. Those vague popular recollections-associations inseparable from a ritual which permits at least a semi-worship of a picture-wherein the old painters of Italy have a dim but universal immortality, came breathing across the unenlightened mind of the Contadino. Possibly his little Chichino was one of those great ones before whom even a Duke Agostini was nobody. Perhaps the painter knew his greatness secured, and did not care for his problematical "rights." Alas, poor honest Gigi! he did not know it was only a youthful flourish of trumpets, and that Francisco had a vast mind to toss palette and brushes out of the window, and set out across the Campagna without so much as waiting for his guide.

Monsignore lived by himself, in a great square house of his own building, in the outskirts of the village of Rocca-lived by himself, yet not by himself, retaining an entresol for his own use, and dwelling in a kind of fatherly superintending neighbourship with the families to whom he had let his superfluity of rooms. He was a prelate, a judge of one of the inferior courts, a politician, trusted by the people, and, in emergencies, by the government. Partisans and admirers, to which class belonged ninetenths of the people who knew him, fondly believed that they saw in him a dangerous opponent to, and possible successor of, Antonelli himself. Everybody knew that his own will alone prevented him from holding the rank of cardinal; and no man wore the purple stockings with an air more courtly than Monsignore

could assume when he pleased. Nevertheless he was the village arbiter, the referee in all troubles, the umpire of disputes everybody's friend, counsellor, and helper-such a priest as might reconcile the stoutest Protestant to priestdom. In his youth he had been "in the world," a soldier, and had served in some of the campaigns of the empire. In his age he was the most genial, the most gentle, the most mildly human of men: mildly human, not passionate nor tragical, though an Italian: a natural celibate, full of calm affections. In every Church there are such unmarried, childless, universal fathers. Monsignore was of the benignest type of such men.

This was the man to whom, by special interference of San Francisco, Gigi's thoughts had been directed, and on account of whom the good

fellow had made his breathless journey into Rome, to fetch, if possible, the young hero out with him; and it was to the Casa Fantini, the house of this good priest, that Francisco took his way next morning, after he had rested from his journey and refreshed himself. The young man made as grand a toilette as he could accomplish. He wanted to look worthy of his future dignities, and to impress the mind of Monsignore. Perhaps, too, he was anxious to recall as few recollections as might be of the little Chichino of Mariuccia's cottage. In this present state of transition and expectation, he did not care to remember too clearly, even in his own person, the peasant thoughts and peasant dress of that forlorn little boy who, nevertheless, then as now, was the Duchessa's son.

Monsignore was a little man, lively and benign, with a little, light footstep, a head small but sagacious, a face of homely features, overflowing with kindness. He was seated in his own special sitting-room, where the stock of books was moderate, but, supported by various scientific tools, looked respectable enough to uphold the learned character of the good prelate, who was past his student days. No state or circumstance surrounded this Italian ecclesiastic and possible statesman. The villagers had free access to that heterogeneous room, where the domino-box flanked the telescope on the table, and a gun leaned against the books in the corner. There was no carpet on the floor to make the new comer's entrance noiseless; no luxurious library-chair to comfort the good priest in his studies. Instead of the purple stockings appertaining to his dignity, Monsignore wore long boots drawn over his trousers and reaching to the knee-perhaps a reminiscence of his old profession-and was in common everyday secular dress, without any mark of priesthood except the small black skullcap which comforted that spot of ecclesiastical baldness on the top of his head. He was busy with compasses and pencils drawing out a new plan for his garden, which was a very important matter to Monsignore. He gave lingering touches to his sketch, and kept measuring it

with his compasses as he listened to Francisco's story, which story did not much astonish the kind priest. He had known of it by rumour many years ago-perhaps had put the facts together in his own mind, and drawn a true conclusion-perhaps had heard it at first-hand under the dark shelter of the confessional-anyhow, he was not very much surprised.

"But does it not occur to you, figlio mio," said Monsignore, "that to send away the only son, if all had been just, is a thing extraordinary? I cannot understand it. Your mother would have been but too proud to give Il Duca an heir if all had been well."

"I know nothing whether it was ill or well," said the young man, with a momentary violent blush which faded instantly. "Perhaps they were not good friends; they were not angels, Monsignore, but they kept together; and the Duchessa either took an antipathy to me, or loved Donna Anna too well, who had been so long supposed the heir; or, it may be, took this means of punishing the Duke-can I tell? but I am the Duchessa Agostini's son."

"Yes, poverino!" said Monsignore, with a sigh, "you are that woman's son: but she who has been capable of deserting you; whom you suppose capable of wronging you to this extreme; of taking your rank and your rights and your very name from you; do you not think she is capable even of telling such a lie at the trial, if it ever come to a trial, as should make an end of your peace, my Francisco? She might say you were not Il Duca's son."

"Monsignore, she is my mother, said Francisco. Once more his colour rose violently, his heart heaved with a convulsive suspiration, and he drew himself to his full height with haughty resentment and impatience. The good priest raised his head from the garden-plan and looked at him. He was skilled in faces. He saw that this view was one which Francisco would not take; that natural feeling, ambition, self-regard, rose in arms against that degrading idea; but that still a passing consciousness of such an abominable possibility quickened the haughty impatience

with which the young man refused to hear a word said against the honour of the woman who was his mother. For another moment Monsignore bent over his compasses, very gently shaking his head, as though he made an inaudible protest under his breath. Then he asked quietly, "What then, my son, are you to do ?"

"I came to ask the advice of Monsignore," said Francisco.

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Ah!" said the good priest, "I know what that means; you would have Monsignore advise you to do what you wish to do. You would have me, who spend my life in keeping peace among my neighbours, advise you to go to law. I love not the law, my son, though I have much to do with it; it is better to try private arrangement than to spend thy money before the Tribunale. All thy means

"Monsignore, pardon; I have no means," interrupted Francisco.

"And how then can you go to law, you foolish boy?" said Monsignore, raising his eyebrows. "But if you were Piombino himself, my son, I should counsel thee the same. Let us try what they will do in the first place. Perhaps the Duchessa repents and will do thee justice; perhaps Donna Anna, who is a good woman, though peevish, will not take her brother's inheritance. At the least, Francisco mio, it is thy duty to try."

"Try! Will the noble Duchessa admit such a one as I am?" said Francisco, reddening with bitter curiosity and eagerness at the thought. "Shall I submit to be called an impostor, or to see her hatred? No, Monsignore; she has cut me off from being her son. It is not by her help I will recover what is my right."

"One must not stand out too much for one's rights in this world," said Monsignore. "One must seek one's fortune in the way of peace, though it is not the pleasantest way; and you would not wish to have a triumph over your mother. Patienza! I remember thee the other day, little Chichino, saying thy catechism among the other children; and a good child, on the whole, when no

I knew very

body crossed thee. well thou wert not a villanello, my son, but hadst good blood in thy veins, howsoever it came to thee. Leave me to think over this case of thine, and if I can help thee, va-bene! if not, thou art none the worse.

Obliged to be content with this, Francisco rose slowly to take his leave. He was going away very reluctantly, trying to find some expedient to lengthen the interview, and obtain some more decided promise of help, when the old man called him back. "Chichino mio," said Monsignore, in his most paternal tone, looking keenly at Francisco, and poising in his fingers his extended compasses, "imagine that I find meaus to make thy intentions known to the Duchessa ; imagine that she acknowledges thee her son, but denies thy further rights-capito? and let us suppose that she offers thee a portion, an income, an estate, if thou remainest silent; what then, my Francisco, should thy representative say?"

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Monsignore! it is not you who should insult me! If I am anything I am Duke Agostini; not a bajocco! not a grosso! I cannot be silent! Would she pay me for my peasant childhood, my youth in St Michele, my content which I can never bring back again? Monsignore, no! I will have nothing but my right.”

So, with a burst of passion which he could not control, Francisco ended abruptly the interview from which he had hoped so much. A few tranquillising words from the kind priest only proved to him that Monsignore sympathised in some degree with the torrent of excitement which had overpowered him for the moment, and was not offended by his violence. But Francisco found no further comfort in this conversation. He went away, indeed, more depressed by the look of compassion and sympathy with which Monsignore watched his departure than he would have been by a positive misfortune; and with that humiliating possibility-which, since the very first announcement of this secret, he had been able to ignore without much difficulty-gnawing again with a momentary but double

bitterness at his heart. Monsignore, full of interest and affectionate sympathy for the unfortunate boy whom he had known all the youth's lifetime; Monsignore, whose judgment was conclusive to every soul in Rocca -that kind paternal authority hailed Francisco's story with no exclamations of joyful surprise, no prophecies of coming splendour, no new title. The young man was nothing but little Chichino still to Monsignore,

though he was the Duchessa's son; and Francisco left the house with a flood of bitterness and disappointment, inconceivable to his youthful experience a month ago, overflowing his heart. Monsignore, who knew the world, believed in that degrading, miserable alternative which it was shame to think of. Was this all his high expectations were to come to? and who could give him back his content?

After his disheartening interview with Monsignore, Francisco had no inclination to linger in Rocca; nothing could bring him back his youthful good-temper, friendliness, and general social amiability. As Duke Agostini he would have taken in very good part the salutations of the villagers, but the Francisco who ought to be Duke Agostini was of less amiable disposition; and even Mariuccia's reverential affection and the enthusiasm of Gigi, who would not understand how Monsignore could have discouraged the young man, added a little to the heart-sickness of the unfortunate young aspirant. He said to himself that they mocked him with that empty title which he should never bear. He turned aside from their affectionate homage as from a sickening and dangerous dainty. Solacing his tumultuous feelings with a self-denial which certainly was not necessary, he set off on foot, scorning the help of the vettura. Because he could not have all he wanted, he went to the other extreme, and punished himself after the usual fashion of youth; and arrived at Rome long after the Ave Maria, when darkness had closed over the Eternal city, and when those streets, deserted of footpassengers, with their stream of carriages, and the Babel of bearded faces to be seen through every café window, looked dry and withered with the chill of the night. Francisco went up his long stair footsore and exhausted, good for nothing but rest— such rest as was possible in the ferment of his new life. He had no fire to draw his chair to and smoke his cigar over. There was no provision

for such a luxury in the little, bare, carpetless apartment. Instead, the young man lighted his lamp, put on his cloak, and placed his little table at the open window. There he supped dismally, yet not without appetite, on bread and wine and some small slices of salami. The moonlight was shining on the broken pillars far below him. It had been a festa that day, and there were still passengers in the Piazza where the lights shone in the shops. Life went on the same in spite of Francisco's dreams. The skies shone alike day afterday, though he was at one time elated, and at another time discouraged. However matters went with one young suffering spirit or another, it made no visible difference either to heaven or earth.

The months of that winter passed in an incoherent, restless, unhappy fashion. Francisco did not know what he was doing. He painted some doleful copies of second-rate pictures, which somebody had commissioned from him, and lived with Spartan economy on the price of them. That warm young Roman nature of his was not self-denying, certainly it did not run in the blood; but for a time, in token of hopeless spite and disgust against the world and his fortune, he could be an ascetic-that was possible enough to him and his race. He had no hope of gaining at his easel the means necessary to bring his cause before the proper tribunal; but if he could not do that he could starve and mortify himself, which was always some little consolation for the moment. His heart was so far out of his work, his imagination was so