“Mr. Percival, I see that you have gone over to the ranks of the enemy,” said Mrs. Grey; “and if Mr. Sinclair deserts me, I shall never be able to stand my ground against two such devotees.”
“I am yours to command, Mrs. Grey,” replied Mr. Sinclair with an expression of contempt in his tone. “But perhaps it might be well to transfer our operations to another battle-field. Allow me to offer you a souvenir of the occasion.” And he handed to each of the ladies a sprig of green from beside the marble tablet.
Assunta quite simply shared hers with Mr. Percival at his request, and then they retraced their steps. As they approached the carriage, Mrs. Grey very cordially begged Mr. Percival to occupy the fourth seat, which he reluctantly declined, as also the invitation to visit them.
“For,” said he, “to-morrow I start for Jerusalem; and, Miss Howard, when I am kneeling, as I hope to do, in the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, I shall remember you and those suggestive words of yours.”
“You could not do me a greater kindness,” replied Assunta, “than to remember me there. And when you return, what do you intend to do in the way of a profession? You see I am interested for Mary's sake. I know what her desire is.”
An hour before, if this question had been proposed to him, Augustine Percival would have been able to give a probable answer. Though he had not yet decided, his few days' sojourn in Rome had stirred up within him a feeling which had been latent even in his boyhood, and from the depths of the Catacombs and beneath the lofty domes he had thought he heard an interior voice which whispered to him, “Follow me.” And now a fair young face had made him hesitate, though, in justice to him, it must be added that no mere charm of beauty would have touched him for a moment. It was the purity and beauty of mind and soul, which he read and appreciated, that caused him to reply to Assunta's question:
“The matter of my future vocation will be left, I think, until my return.”
Then, with many pleasant farewell words, they parted; and, except to mention the meeting to her friend in her next letter, Assunta thought no more of the thread of another life which had for a moment crossed hers.
That evening there were guests at the villa; and, as usual, Assunta's amiability was taxed by the repeated demands for music. As she sat absently turning over the leaves before her in one of the intervals, Mr. Carlisle came and stood beside her.
“Petite,” he said, “I have been to see the authorities about the family of that poor woman who died to-day, and everything will be arranged comfortably for them; so you need feel no further anxiety!”