“Most faithfully. I did not even betray that I had one, as a woman might have done.” And Father Percival glanced at his sister, who pretended indignation, but said nothing.
“Then,” said Mr. Carlisle, “I must tell my own story. Assunta, come and sit by me.” And he pointed to the vacant chair beside him, while Assunta obeyed at once, the words and manner were so like those of the old days.
“Forgive me,” Mr. Carlisle went on, “if I call you to-night by the familiar name. I could not say Miss Howard, and tell you what I have to tell. And, Mrs. Lee, if I seem to address myself too exclusively to your friend, I beg you will pardon me, and believe that, if my story interests you, I am more than glad that you should know all. Assunta, put your hand here.” And taking her hand in his, he laid it upon his brow. “In that Roman sickness it has often rested there, and has soothed and healed. Tell me, child, do you feel no difference now?”
Assunta looked at him wonderingly—still more so when she caught sight of a meaning smile on Father Percival's face.
“Mr. Carlisle, you puzzle me,” she said.
Again that peculiar and beautiful smile, as he continued:
“The sign of the cross has been there; do you understand now, my child? No? Then, in one word, I will explain all. Credo—I believe! Not yet? Assunta, you have, I know, prayed for me. Your prayer has been answered. I am a Catholic, and, under God, I owe all to Augustine Percival.”
Assunta could not speak. For a moment she looked in his face with those earnest blue eyes, as if to read there the confirmation of his words, and then she bowed her head upon her hands in silence. Mr. Carlisle was the first to break it.
“And so you are not sorry, petite, to welcome so old a sinner into the fold?”
“Sorry!” exclaimed Assunta at last. “Life will not be long enough to thank God for this happiness.”