When he came out of the church and entered his house, the street was empty; the people were afraid of what they had done and of their own ingratitude. He crossed the threshold of the presbytery. The sere vine veiled his study casement; in the silence he could hear the sound of the Edera water; he sat down at his familiar table, with the dog upon his knees. His eyes were wet, and his heart was sick; his courage was broken.
"How shall I bear my life here?" he thought. All which had made it of value and lightened its solitude was gone. Even his people had turned against him; suspicious, thankless, hostile.
The old sacristan, standing doubtful and timid at the entrance of the chamber, drew near and reverently touched his arm.
"Sir — here is a letter — it came three days ago."
Don Silverio stretched out his hand over the little dog's head, and took it.
He changed colour as he saw its seal and superscription.
Rome had at last remembered him, and awakened to his value.
At the latest Consistory he had been nominated to the Cardinalate.
THE END.
NOTE