Montanelli turned away and stared into the
dusky gloom of the magnolia branches. The
twilight was so dim that his figure had a shadowy
look, like a dark ghost among the darker boughs.

"And then?" he asked slowly.

"And then--she died. You know, I had been
up the last three nights with her----"

He broke off and paused a moment, but Montanelli
did not move.

"All those two days before they buried her,"
Arthur went on in a lower voice, "I couldn't think
about anything. Then, after the funeral, I was ill;
you remember, I couldn't come to confession."

"Yes; I remember."

"Well, in the night I got up and went into
mother's room. It was all empty; there was only
the great crucifix in the alcove. And I thought
perhaps God would help me. I knelt down
and waited--all night. And in the morning
when I came to my senses--Padre, it isn't any use;
I can't explain. I can't tell you what I saw--I
hardly know myself. But I know that God has
answered me, and that I dare not disobey Him."