where he lived, and whether she would see him soon again. Poor child!
She was really innocent, and only dimly surmised how he would haunt her
hereafter. Would he look well in citizen's clothes? How would Norman
Mann seem in his uniform? She wished she had a jacket cut like his. And
so on in an indolent way. But penitence was getting the better of her,
and after vainly trying to read or write, she settled herself down for
a cry. To think that she, Mae Madden, could have acted so absurdly. She
never would forgive herself, never. Then she cried some more, a good
deal more.

About four in the afternoon a very bright sunbeam peeped through her
closed blinds, and she brushed away her tears, and peace came back to
her small heart, and she felt like a New England valley after a shower,
very fresh and clean, and goodly,--just a trifle subdued, however.

She would go to church. She had heard that there was lovely music at
vespers, in the little church at the foot of Capo le Case. St. Andrea
delle Frate, was it? It wasn't very far away. She could say her prayers
and repent entirely and wholly. So she dressed rapidly, singing the
familiar old Te Deum joyously all the while, and off she started.

The air was cool and clear and delicious and the street-scenes were
pretty. Mae took in everything before her as she left the house, from
the Barberini fountain to the groups of models at the corner of the
Square and the Via Felice; but she did not see, at some distance
behind her, on the opposite side of the street, the sudden start of a
motionless figure as she left the house, or know that it straightened
itself and moved along as she did, turning on to the pretty Via Sistina,
so down the hill at Capo le Case, to the church below.