The murmured language of Donna Violetta was audible to none but him for whose paternal ear it was intended, and that dread Being whose just anger it was hoped it might lessen.  But Don Camillo gazed, through the half-opened door of the chapel, on the kneeling form, the clasped hands, and the uplifted countenance of the beautiful penitent.  As she proceeded with the acknowledgment of her errors, the flush on her cheek deepened, and a pious excitement kindled in those eyes which he had so lately seen glowing with a very different passion.  The ingenuous and disciplined soul of Violetta was not so quickly disburdened of its load of sin as that of the more practised mind of the Lord of Sant’ Agata.  The latter fancied that he could trace in the movement of her lips the sound of his own name, and a dozen times during the confession he thought he could even comprehend sentences of which he himself was the subject.  Twice the good father smiled involuntarily, and at each indiscretion he laid a hand in affection on the bared head of the suppliant.  But Violetta ceased to speak, and the absolution was pronounced with a fervor that the remarkable circumstances in which they all stood did not fail to heighten.

When this portion of his duty was ended, the Carmelite entered the oratory.  With steady hands he lighted the candles of the altar, and made the other dispositions for the mass.  During this interval Don Camillo was at the side of his mistress, whispering with the warmth of a triumphant and happy lover.  The governess stood near the door, watching for the sound of footsteps in the antechamber.  The monk then advanced to the entrance of the little chapel, and was about to speak, when a hurried step from Donna Florinda arrested his words.  Don Camillo had just time to conceal his person within the drapery of a window, before the door opened and Annina entered.

When the preparations of the altar and the solemn countenance of the priest first met her eye, the girl recoiled with the air of one rebuked.  But rallying her thoughts, with that readiness which had gained her the employment she filled, she crossed herself reverently, and took a place apart, like one who, while she knew her station, wished to participate in the mysteries of the holy office.

“Daughter, none who commence this mass with us, can quit the presence ere it be completed,”, observed the monk.

“Father, it is my duty to be near the person of my mistress, and it is a happiness to be near it on the occasion of this early matin.”

The monk was embarrassed.  He looked from one to the other, in indecision, and was about to frame some pretence to get rid of the intruder, when Don Cainillo appeared in the middle of the room.

“Reverend monk, proceed,” he said; “’tis but another witness of my happiness.”