be laid in the same marble vault;—­proud and cold and stern as her heart had grown through long years of pain and disappointment, it is possible that had she known this, her sufferings might have been still more poignant.  But the secret had died with the dead so far as the world went;—­there remained but the Eternal Record on which the bond of brotherhood was inscribed,—­and in that Eternal Record some of us do our best not to believe, notwithstanding the universal secret dread that we shall all be confronted with it at last.

Meanwhile, events were moving rapidly, and the net of difficult circumstance was weaving itself round the good Cardinal Bonpre in a manner that was strangely perplexing to his clear and just mind.  He had received a letter from Monsignor Moretti, worded in curtly civil terms, to the effect that as the Cardinal’s miracle of healing had been performed in France, he, as on Vatican service in Paris, found it his duty to enquire thoroughly into all the details.  For this cause, he, Monsignor Moretti, trusted it would suit the Cardinal’s convenience to remain in Rome till the return of Monsieur Claude Cazeau, secretary to the Archbishop of Rouen, who had been despatched back to that city on the business connected with this affair.  Thus Monsignor Moretti;—­and Cardinal Bonpre, reading between the lines of his letter, knew that the displeasure of Rome had fallen upon him as heavily as it did upon the eloquent and liberal-minded Padre Agostino when he made the mistake of asking a blessing from Heaven on the King and Queen of Italy for their works of charity among the poor.  And he easily perceived where the real trouble lay,—­namely, in the fact of his having condoned the Abbe Vergniaud’s public confession.  Out of the one thing there was an effort being made to contrive mischief with the other,—­and Bonpre, being too frail and old to worry his brain with complex arguments as to the how and why and wherefore of the machinations carried on at the Vatican, resigned himself to God, and contenting his mind with meditation and prayer, waited events patiently, caring little how they ended for himself, provided they did not involve others in any catastrophe.  Moreover, there was a certain consolation contained in his enforced waiting,—­for his niece Angela had confided to him that the work of her great picture had advanced more swiftly than she had imagined possible, and that it was likely she would be able to show it to her relatives and private friends in the course of a week or so.

“But Florian must see it first,” she said, “Of course you know that!  Florian must always be first!”

“Yes,” and the Cardinal stroked her hair tenderly, while his eyes rested on her with rather a troubled look—­“Yes—­of course—­Florian first.  I suppose he will always be first with you, Angela?—­after God?”

“Always!” she answered softly, “Always—­after God!”