“Marion’s.”
“You don’t mean—” she exclaimed, and glanced round at her sister.
“You’re the only one of the family who didn’t know it, and I don’t want you slighted,” he replied. “It’s a settled affair.”
Isabel threw her arms around her sister’s neck and kissed her. “I never dreamed of such a thing,” she said; “but I am delighted all the same. You’re a million times welcome into the family, Marion. But I want you to understand that you are not better than papa.”
By this they had reached home, just as the soft bells of their basilica were striking midnight.
When they had said good-night to Marion and gone up-stairs, all turned with smiling faces to Bianca, and gathered about her, waiting one moment to see who should speak first, or if the congratulation was to be silent. By some slight
motion or look she imposed silence, at the same time that her face expressed the sweetest happiness and gratitude.
“That dear canonico has given me an invitation for us all to go next week and hear his Mass in the crypt of St. Peter’s,” she said. “Our number is just right; for only five can go at a time. We are to be there at eight o’clock.”
“Am I included?” Mr. Vane asked.
“O papa!” Bianca turned to him, and, putting her hand in his arm, leaned against his shoulder. No plan of hers could be perfect that did not include him; yet the cruel thought flashed through her mind, in spite of her love for him, that in the crypt of St. Peter, next to Calvary the most regally sacred spot on earth, a Protestant was singularly out of place, and that no one should enter there who did not bow to St. Peter as the Prince of the Apostles and the holder of the awful keys.