disrespect to the sex, which reflected even upon the Virgin, the
object, as he was forced to allow, of their high veneration. He smiled
patiently, and confessed that Mrs. Vervain had all the reasons on her
side. At the polyglot printing-office, where she handsomely bought
every kind of Armenian book and pamphlet, and thus repaid in the only
way possible the trouble their visit had given, he did not offer to
take leave of them, but after speaking with Ferris, of whom he seemed
an old friend, he led them through the garden environing the convent,
to a little pavilion perched on the wall that defends the island from
the tides of the lagoon. A lay-brother presently followed them, bearing
a tray with coffee, toasted rusk, and a jar of that conserve of rose-
leaves which is the convent's delicate hospitality to favored guests.
Mrs. Vervain cried out over the poetic confection when Padre Girolamo
told her what it was, and her daughter suffered herself to express a
guarded pleasure. The amiable matron brushed the crumbs of the
_baicolo_ from her lap when the lunch was ended, and fitting on
her glasses leaned forward for a better look at the monk's black-
bearded face. "I'm perfectly delighted," she said. "You must be very
happy here. I suppose you are."

"Yes," answered the monk rapturously; "so happy that I should be
content never to leave San Lazzaro. I came here when I was very young,
and the greater part of my life has been passed on this little island.
It is my home--my country."

"Do you never go away?"

"Oh yes; sometimes to Constantinople, sometimes to London and Paris."

"And you've never been to America yet? Well now, I'll tell you; you