"Italy."

There was a long silence.

"Tell me, Arthur," said Montanelli, turning to
him and speaking very gravely, "how long have
you been thinking about this?"

"Since--last winter."

"Before your mother's death? And did she
know of it?"

"N-no. I--I didn't care about it then."

"And now you--care about it?"

Arthur pulled another handful of bells off the
foxglove.

"It was this way, Padre," he began, with his
eyes on the ground. "When I was preparing for
the entrance examination last autumn, I got to
know a good many of the students; you remember?
Well, some of them began to talk to me
about--all these things, and lent me books. But
I didn't care much about it; I always wanted to
get home quick to mother. You see, she was quite
alone among them all in that dungeon of a house;
and Julia's tongue was enough to kill her. Then,