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Arthur seemed embarrassed by the question. “It–it was n-not a r-regular meeting,” he said with a nervous little stammer. “A student had come from Genoa, and he made a speech to us– a-a sort of–lecture.”

“What did he lecture about?”

Arthur hesitated. “You won’t ask me his name, Padre, will you? Because I promised—-”

“I will ask you no questions at all, and if you have promised secrecy of course you must not tell me; but I think you can almost trust me by this time.”

“Padre, of course I can. He spoke about–us and our duty to the people–and to–our own selves; and about–what we might do to help—-”

“To help whom?”

“The contadini–and—-”

“And?”

“Italy.”

There was a long silence.

“Tell me, Arthur,” said Montanelli, turning to him and speaking very gravely, “how long have you been thinking about this?”

“Since–last winter.”

“Before your mother’s death? And did she know of it?”

“N-no. I–I didn’t care about it then.”

“And now you–care about it?”

Arthur pulled another handful of bells off the foxglove.