I scarcely wondered to see two Catholic ladies prostrate themselves and
kiss his feet and the hem of his white garment with a rapture of
devotion from which his attendants with difficulty rescued him. He
lingered longest by a pretty boy four or five years old, and there was a
pathos in the caressing, clinging touch of his hand as it rested on the
child's head that called to mind an old love-story of the handsome Count
Mastai Ferretti when he wore the uniform of an officer of the guards,
and had not yet thought of priestly robe or papal crown. I wonder if he
remembers the fair English girl now?

Having completed the round, he made a brief address, the purport of
which was that he was about to give us his blessing, and he wished that
it might be diffused to all our families and friends, and be not for the
present moment only, but extend through our whole lives and abide with
us in the hour of death; "But remember," said he with a kind of paternal
benignity, "that the gates of paradise open rarely to any who are
without the communion of the Holy Catholic Church. Sometimes
perhaps--sometimes--but with great difficulty." He extended his hands.
We dropped on our knees and received the blessing of this benign old
man, whom the larger part of Christendom revere as the earthly head of
the Church. As we were making our way through the stately columns of
the colonnade which forms the approach to the Vatican I saw the count
glance at the amulet which Helen wore. "What is in it?" I asked.

"A relic of the blessed Saint Francis, my patron," he replied.

"It will lose its efficacy on the neck of a little heretic like Miss St.
Clair," said I with a purpose.

"It will do her no harm," said he coldly.