It is very natural. You are away from England, and that is a long distance at your age. Do you wish to go back ?"
Zella did not like to say " Yes," as she was presumably in Rome in order to be near her grandmother and aunt, and felt that to say " No " would sound inconsistent.
She replied indirectly:
"I have not been home to Villetswood since October."
"Places do not run away," returned the Baronne with much common-sense. "Time passes, little one, and you will find yourself there again."
"But shall I? said Zella. "Does papa mean to take me back there, ever ?"
"Has he not told you so ?"
"He has never spoken to me about it, or—or about anything," mournfully said Zella, who meant, by the ambiguous word "anything," her dead mother.
"Then, child, you must respect his silence," replied the Baronne decisively. "I need not tell you that in such masters one doesn't ask questions: n'est se pas? Co ne se fait pas."
Zella, who would in this case undoubtedly have asked questions had she possessed sufficient moral courage to break through her father's reserve, replied meekly, "No, Grand'mère," and felt that the conversation was ended.
But she was acutely aware that the Baronne looked at her two or three times in the course of the day with great kindness, and shrewdly suspected that her little confidence had touched and interested the old lady.
At Midnight Mass in San Silvestro she willingly took her place in the crowded church between her father and grandmother. Tante Stéphanie knelt beyond the Baronne, a slight, devoutly bent figure, never moving from her knees throughout the long service, until the congregation rose together and filed, in rather aimless and very crowded procession, towards the Crib at a small shrine next to the High-Altar.
The Baronne got on to her knees on the stone floor with difficulty, and Zella knelt beside her, so tightly wedged on either side that it would have been impossible to move. She could just see the brilliantly lighted Crib, across a sea of heads, with the large wax figure of the Bambino, dwarfing all the other figures in the group, raised on a straw-decked manger. „
The organ pealed into the Adeste Fidelis, and the worshippers, with the shrill, nasal, and yet indescribably devotional intonation peculiar to an Italian congregation, began to sing.
The air was familiar enough to Zella, and vaguely recalled memories of carol-singers at Villetswood.
She hid her face in her hands, and was not ungratified to find tears trickling slowly through her slight fingers.
She felt that her grandmother was looking at her, and raised her wet eyes to the Crib with an unconscious expression, half expecting to feel the pressure of the hand which Aunt Marianne would certainly have deemed suitable to the occasion.
But the Baronne remained impassive, and, when Zella at last ventured to steal a look at her, her eyes were devoutly shut and her rosary beads slipping rapidly through her fingers.
It was nearly half-past two in the morning before they got back to the Via Gregoriana, where Zella and her father left the Baronne and Stéphanie, with a mutual interchange of "Bonnes fetes " and "Heureux Noels."
The next morning Zella's father gave her an amber necklace, and she received two or three letters from England; and the day was much the same as other days, except that Tante Stéphanie in the morning inquired whether she wished to attend the English Church.
Zella felt that it would be almost unendurable if she were expected to attend the services of both the Protestant and Catholic churches, and, moreover, conjectured that her grandmother and aunt would think none the worse of her for being contented with the Catholic edition of Christmas worship only; so she answered very prettily that she had loved going to the Midnight Mass, and wished for nothing further.
At which reply Stéphanie de Kervoyou appeared better pleased than her mother, who merely said:
"No doubt, if Louis wishes Zella to attend the English Church, he will himself take her there."
But Louis made no such suggestion.
Zella, always sensitive to every faint shade of alteration in the feelings with which she was regarded by her surroundings, thought that she discerned a slight lessening of the added warmth of manner which the Baronne had displayed towards her since their conversation on Christmas Eve.
An uneasy instinct made her wonder whether this might be attributed to her delicate display of emotion at the Midnight Mass. If so, thought Zella, it argued a degree of unfeelingness on the part of the Baronne that would certainly prevent her (Zella) from ever again indulging too freely in a demonstration of her deepest feelings that yet surely was so natural as to be almost commendable.
Zella's deepest feelings, accordingly, were not again allowed to come into play until the first warm days in March sent Zella and her father for a week's visit to Frascati.
There they stayed at the tall white convent of San Carlo, and went for daily drives and excursions that were to Zella a secret relief from the endless churches visited in Rome by her and Tante Stéphanie.
Her father appeared delighted with her companionship, and only when she received an occasional letter from her Aunt Marianne did it strike Zella as strange that he should have regained so entirely his old jovial good spirits.
In the garden at the Frascati convent, on the first Sunday evening they spent there, Zella leant upon the little stone parapet that overlooked so wide a stretch of the Roman Campagna, and gazed at the distant lights of the city, just beginning to tremble through the quickly falling dusk.
An agreeable melancholy filled her. Zella's eyes filled slowly and luxuriously with tears.
Ah, church bells recalling a happy, infinitely far-away past. ... A wistful yearning, of which Zella made no attempt to discover the cause, took possession of her. Her eyes overflowed.
A line read somewhere floated vaguely through her mind with-a beautiful sense of appropriateness:
"Sunset and evening bell,
And after that the dark. . . ."
She could not formulate any very definite cause for her tears, but moaned vaguely to herself of Villetswood—dear, dear mother—a long time ago—dear old days that would never come back again. . . .
She almost felt it a pity that no one should be there to witness grief so artistic in so appropriate a setting, when her father's dismayed voice beside her caused her to turn hastily, the tears still sparkling on her thick lashes.
"Zella, my dear ! what is the matter? Why are you crying?"
Zella had reached the stage when it becomes easier to cry harder still than to stop.
"Oh," she sobbed, clinging to him, "Villetswood— home! I want to go home. It all reminded me so—' the church bells—dear, dear Villetswood!"
It mattered nothing to Zella that the church bells had never been audible at Villetswood except from one particular corner of the stables when the wind was in a peculiarly favourable quarter.
But her father was not a prey to similar oblivion. He looked at his weeping daughter with a dismay
