southwards, to Cervia. The Venice road lies away to the northward,
through the wood that you can see on the furthest horizon. It was by
that road I came to Ravenna. I shall never travel it again."

"From Venice, father? Did you come from Venice?" asked Paolina,
eagerly.

"From La bella Venezia I came, daughter--fourteen years ago. And
once in every month I indulge myself by going to the top of our
tower--you can't see it from this window, it is on the northern side
of the church--and looking out over the north Pineta as far as I can
see towards it. May God and St. Mark grant that no tempter ever
offer me the sight of Venice again at the price of my soul's
salvation! I shall never, never see Venice more!"

"You must be a Venetian, father, surely, to love it so well?" said
Paolina, after a minute or two of silence.

"A Venetian I am--or was, daughter; as I well knew you were when you
first spoke. Might I ask your name?"

"Paolina Foscarelli, father. I am an orphan," said she, softly.

"No!" said the monk, shaking his head, with a deep sigh, and looking
earnestly into the girl's face, but without any appearance of
surprise,--"No; you are not Paolina Foscarelli."

"Indeed, father, that is my name," said Paolina, again recurring to
her doubt whether the monk was altogether of sound mind, and
speaking very quietly and gently; "my father's name was Foscarelli,