a small salon dimly lighted by a poor little petroleum lamp. The
_salottino_, in its severe, ecclesiastical simplicity, held nothing of
interest, save a canvas by Morone--the fine portrait of a man; two small
panels with angels' heads, in the style of Luini; and a grand piano,
loaded with music. The Abbot, passionately fond of pictures, music, and
snuff, dedicated to Mozart and Haydn a great part of the scant leisure
he enjoyed after the performance of his duties as priest and ruler. He
was intelligent, somewhat eccentric, and possessed of a certain amount
of literary, philosophical, and religious learning which, however,
stopped short with the year 1850, he having a profound contempt for all
learning subsequent to that date. Short and grey-haired, he had a clever
face. A certain curtness of manner, and his rough familiarity, had
astonished the monks, accustomed to the exquisitely refined manners of
his predecessor, a Roman of noble birth. He had come from Parma, and had
assumed his duties only three days previously.

Don Clemente knelt before him and kissed his hand.

"You have strange ways here at Subiaco," said the Abbot. "Is ten o'clock
the same as eleven o'clock to you?"

Don Clemente apologised. He had been detained by a duty of charity. The
Abbot invited him to be seated,

"My son," said he, "are you sleepy?" Don Clemente smiled without
answering.

"Well," the Father Abbot continued, "you have wasted an hour of sleep,
and now I have my reasons for robbing you of a little more. I intend
to speak to you about two matters. You asked my permission, to visit a