in the winter, when she got so ill, I forgot all about
the students and their books; and then, you know,
I left off coming to Pisa altogether. I should have
talked to mother if I had thought of it; but it went
right out of my head. Then I found out that she
was going to die----You know, I was almost
constantly with her towards the end; often I would
sit up the night, and Gemma Warren would come
in the day to let me get to sleep. Well, it was in
those long nights; I got thinking about the books
and about what the students had said--and wondering--
whether they were right and--what--
Our Lord would have said about it all."

"Did you ask Him?" Montanelli's voice was
not quite steady.

"Often, Padre. Sometimes I have prayed to
Him to tell me what I must do, or to let me die
with mother. But I couldn't find any answer."

"And you never said a word to me. Arthur, I
hoped you could have trusted me."

"Padre, you know I trust you! But there are
some things you can't talk about to anyone. I--it
seemed to me that no one could help me--not
even you or mother; I must have my own answer
straight from God. You see, it is for all my life
and all my soul."