poor monks.

Next day I found the little nuns all in tears. They were gathering
flowers to send as a last gift to their confessor. In the convent
garden I found Dionea, standing by the side of a big basket of roses,
one of the white pigeons perched on her shoulder.

"So," she said, "he has killed himself with charcoal, poor Padre
Domenico!"

Something in her tone, her eyes, shocked me.

"God has called to Himself one of His most faithful servants," I said
gravely.

Standing opposite this girl, magnificent, radiant in her beauty, before
the rose-hedge, with the white pigeons furling and unfurling, strutting
and pecking all round, I seemed to see suddenly the whitewashed room of
last night, the big crucifix, that poor thin face under the yellow
waxlight. I felt glad for Father Domenico; his battle was over.

"Take this to Father Domenico from me," said Dionea, breaking off a
twig of myrtle starred over with white blossom; and raising her head
with that smile like the twist of a young snake, she sang out in a high
guttural voice a strange chant, consisting of the word _Amor--amor--amor_.
I took the branch of myrtle and threw it in her face.

_January 3, 1886_

It will be difficult to find a place for Dionea, and in this