“Now, dear grandmother,” said Agnes, “have I not said I would do everything for you, and work hard for you?  Ask me to do anything else in the world, grandmamma; I will do anything to make you happy, except marry this man,—­that I cannot.”

“And that is the only thing I want you to do.  Well, I suppose I may as well lock up these things; I see my gifts are not cared for.”

And the old soul turned and went in quite testily, leaving Agnes with a grieved heart, sitting still by her uncle.

“Never weep, little one,” said the kind old monk, when he saw the silent tears falling one after another; “your grandmother loves you, after all, and will come out of this, if we are quiet.”

“This is such a beautiful world,” said Agnes, “who would think it would be such a hard one to live in?—­such battles and conflicts as people have here!”

“You say well, little heart; but great is the glory to be revealed; so let us have courage.”

“Dear uncle, have you heard any ill-tidings of late?” asked Agnes.  “I noticed this morning you were cast down, and to-night you look so tired and sad.”

“Yes, dear child,—­heavy tidings have indeed come.  My dear master at Florence is hard beset by wicked men, and in great danger,—­in danger, perhaps, of falling a martyr to his holy zeal for the blessed Jesus and his Church.”

“But cannot our holy father, the Pope, protect him?  You should go to Rome directly and lay the case before him.”

“It is not always possible to be protected by the Pope,” said Father Antonio, evasively.  “But I grieve much, dear child, that I can be with you no longer.  I must gird up my loins and set out for Florence, to see with my own eyes how the battle is going for my holy master.”

“Ah, must I lose you, too, my dear, best friend?” said Agnes.  “What shall I do?”

“Thou hast the same Lord Jesus, and the same dear Mother, when I am gone.  Have faith in God, and cease not to pray for His Church,—­and for me, too.”

“That I will, dear uncle!  I will pray for you more than ever,—­for prayer now will be all my comfort.  But,” she added, with hesitation, “oh, uncle, you promised to visit him!”

“Never fear, little Agnes,—­I will do that.  I go to him this very night,—­now, even,—­for the daylight waxes too scant for me to work longer.”

“But you will come back and stay with us to-night, uncle?”

“Yes, I will,—­but to-morrow morning I must be up and away with the birds; and I have labored hard all day to finish the drawings for the lad who shall carve the shrine, that he may busy himself thereon in my absence.”

“Then you will come back?”

“Certainly, dear heart, I will come back; of that be assured.  Pray God it be before long, too.”

So saying, the good monk drew his cowl over his head, and, putting his portfolio of drawings under his arm, began to wend his way towards the old town.