degrees the cold composure of manner that had distinguished her in earlier life: but she could not command herself so far as to make a show of affection for her younger son. Brian was a very small boy indeed when he found that out. "Mother doesn't love me," he said once to his father, with grieving lips and tear-filled eyes; "I wonder why." What could his father do but press him passionately to his broad breast and assure him in words of tenderest affection that he loved his boy; and that if Brian were good, and true, and brave, his mother would love him too! "I will be very good then," said Brian, nestling close up to his father's shoulder—for he was a child with exceedingly winning ways and a very affectionate disposition—and putting one arm round Mr. Luttrell's neck. "But you know she loves Richard always—even when he is naughty. And you love me when I'm naughty, too." What could Mr. Luttrell say to that?

He died when Brian was fifteen years old; and the last words upon his tongue were an entreaty that his wife would never tell the boy of the suspicion that had turned her love to him into bitterness. He died, and part of the sting of his death to Mrs. Luttrell lay in the fact that he died thinking her mad on that one point. The doctors had called her conviction "a case of mania," and he had implicitly believed them.

But suppose she had not been mad all the time!

II.

In San Stefano life went on tranquilly from month to month and year to year. In 1867, Padre Cristoforo of the Benedictine Monastery, looked scarcely older than when he picked out a nurse for the Luttrell family in 1854. He was a tall man, with a stooping gait and a prominent, sagacious chin; deep-set, meditative, dark eyes, and a somewhat fine and subtle sort of smile which flickered for a moment at the corner of his thin-lipped mouth, and disappeared before you were fully conscience of its presence. He was summoned one day from the monastery (where he now filled the office of sub-Prior) at the earnest request of an old woman who lived in a neighbouring village. She had known him many years before, and thought that it would be easier to tell her story to him than to a complete stranger. He had received her communication, and stood by her pallet with evident concern and astonishment depicted upon his face. He held a paper in his hand, at which he glanced from time to time as the woman spoke.

"It was not my doing," moaned the old crone. "It was my daughter's. I have but told you what she said to me five years ago. She said that she did change the children; it was Lippo, indeed, who died, but the child whom the English lady took to England with her was Vincenza's little Dino; and the boy whom we know as Dino is really the English child. I know not whether it is true! Santa Vergine! what more can I say?"

"Why did you not reveal the facts five years ago?" said the Father, with some severity of tone.

"I will tell you, Reverend Father. Because Vincenza came to me next day and said that she had lied—that the child, Dino, was her own, after all, and that she had only wanted to see how much I would believe. What was I to do? I do not know which story to believe; that is why I tell both stories to you before I die."

"She denied it, then, next day?"

"Yes, Father; but her husband believed it, as you will see by that paper. He wrote it down—he could write and read a little, which I could never do; and he told me what he had written:—'I, Giovanni Vasari, have heard my wife, Vincenza, say that she stole an English gentleman's child, and put her own child in its place. I do not know whether this is true; but I leave my written word that I was innocent of any such crime, and humbly pray to Heaven that she may be forgiven if she committed it.' Is that right, Reverend Father? And then his name, and the day and the year."

"Quite right," said Padre Cristoforo. "It was written just before Giovanni died. The matter cannot possibly be proved without further testimony. Where is Vincenza?"'

"Alas, Father, I do not know. Dead, I think, or she would have come back to me before now. I have not heard of her since she took a situation as maid to a lady in Turin four years ago."

"Why have you told me so useless a story at all, then?" said the father, again with some sternness of voice and manner. "Evidently Vincenza was fond of romancing; and, probably—probably——" He did not finish his sentence; but he was thinking—"Probably the mad fancy of that English lady about her child—which I well remember—suggested the story to Vincenza as a means of getting money. I wish I had her here."

"I have told you the story, Reverend Father," said the old woman, whose voice was growing very weak, "because I know that I am dying, and that the boy will be left alone in the world, which is a sad fate for any boy, Father, whether he is Vincenza's child or the son of the English lady. He is a good lad, Reverend Father, strong, and obedient, and patient; if the good Fathers would but take charge of him, and see that he is taught a trade, or put to some useful work! He would be no burden to you, my poor, little Dino!"

For a moment the Benedictine's eyes flashed with a quick fire; then he looked down and stood perfectly still, with his hands folded and his head bent. A new idea had darted across his mind. Did the story that he had just heard offer him no opportunity of advancing the interests of his Order and of his Church?

He turned as if to ask another question, but he was too late. Old Assunta was fast falling into the stupor that is but the precursor of death. He called her attendant, and waited for a time to see whether consciousness was likely to return. But he waited in vain. Assunta said nothing more.

The boy of whom she had spoken came and wept at her bed-side, and Padre Cristoforo observed him curiously. He was well worthy of the monk's gaze. He was light and supple in figure, perfectly formed, with a clear brown skin and a face such as one sees in early Italian paintings of angelic singing-boys—a face with broad, serious brows, soft, oval cheeks, curved lips, and delightfully dimpled chin. He had large, brown eyes and a mass of tangled, curling hair. The priest noted that his slender limbs were graceful as those of a young fawn, that his hands and feet were small and well shaped, and that his appearance betokened perfect health—a slight spareness and sharpness of outline being the only trace which poverty seemed to have left upon him.

The sub-Prior of San Stefano saw these things; and meditated upon certain possibilities in the future. He went next day to old Assunta's funeral, and laid his hand on Dino's shoulder as the boy was turning disconsolately from his grandmother's grave.

"My child," he said, gently, "you are alone."

"Yes, Father," said Dino, with a stifled sob.

"Will you come with me to the monastery? I think we can find you a home. You have nowhere to go, poor child, and you will be weary and hungry before long. Will you come?"

"There is nothing in the world that I should like so well!" cried the boy, ardently.

"Come then," said the Padre, with one of his subtle smiles. "We will go together."

He held out his hand, in which Dino gladly laid his hot and trembling fingers. Then the monk and the boy set out on the three miles walk which lay between them and the monastery.

On their arrival, Padre Cristoforo left the boy in the cool cloisters whilst he sought the Prior—a dignitary whose permission would be needed before Dino would be allowed to stay. There was a school in connection with the monastery, but it was devoted chiefly to the training of young priests, and it was not probable that a peasant like Dino Vasari would be admitted to the ranks of these budding ecclesiastics. The Prior thought that old Assunta's grandchild would make a good helper for Giacomo, the dresser of the vines.

"Does that not satisfy you?" said Padre Cristoforo, in a rather peculiar tone, when he had carried this