sleep upon my mystification. As soon as possible the next morning I went to his house, where I found a post-chaise, in charge of one of the old vetturini and prepared for a journey, drawn up at the door. While I was in the act of asking for him Wilmerding came down, but to my regret, for it was an obstacle to explanations, he was accompanied by his venerable chief. The American Minister had lately come back, and he leaned affectionately on his young secretary's shoulder. He took, or almost took, the explanations off our hands; he was oratorically cheerful, said that his young friend wanted to escape from the Roman past—to breathe a less tainted air, that he had fixed it all right and was going to see him off, to ride with him a part of the way. The General (have I not mentioned that he was a general?) climbed into the vehicle and waited, like a sitting Cicero, while Wilmerding gave directions for the stowage of two or three more parcels. I looked at him hard as he did this and thought him flushed and excited. Then he put out his hand to me and I held it, with my eyes still on his face. We were a little behind the carriage, out of sight of the General.
"Frankly—what's the matter?" I asked.
"It's all over—they don't want me."
"Don't want you?"
"Veronica can't—she told me yesterday. I mean she can't marry me," Wilmerding explained, with touching lucidity. "She doesn't care for me enough."
"Ah, thank God!" I murmured, with great relief, pressing his hand.
The General put his head out of the chaise. "If there was a railroad in this queer country I guess we should miss the train."
"All the same, I'm glad," said Wilmerding.