"This is a church," said Mae; "my prayers are sacred; do not disturb
me."

He held his rosary toward her, with the cross at the end tightly clasped
in his hand. "My prayers are here, too," he said. "Oh, Signorina, give
me one little prayer, one of your little prayers."

He knelt before her in the quiet, dim, half light, his hands clasped,
and an intense earnestness in his easily moved Italian soul, that
floated up to his face. It looked like beautiful penitence and faith
to Mae. Here was a soul in sympathy with hers, one which met her
harmoniously in every mood, slid into her dreams and wild wishes,
sparkled with her enjoyment, and now knelt as she knelt, and asked for
one of her prayers.

She stood a minute irresolute. Then she smiled down on him a full, rich
smile, and said in English: "God bless you," The next moment she was
gone.

Bero made no movement to follow her, but remained quietly on his knees,
his head bowed low.

* * * * *

"I looked in at St. Andrea's, at vespers," said that dear, bungling
fellow, Eric, at dinner that night, "and saw you Mae, but you were so
busy with your prayers I came away." There was a pause, and Mae knew
that people looked at her.

"Yes, I was there; the music was wonderful."