The guests of Hercules

								

"Oh, I do. When the waves of regret and homesickness come I cheer myself
with thoughts of Italy. Ever since I can remember, I've wanted Italy;
ever since I began to study history and look at maps, and even to read
the lives of the saints, I've cared more about Italy than any other
country. When I expected to spend all my life in a convent, I used to
think that maybe I could go to the mother-house in Italy for a while
some day. You can't realize, Peter--you, who have lived in warm
countries--how I've pined for warmth. I've never been warm enough,
never in my life, for more than a few hours together. Even in summer
it's never really hot here, never hot with the glorious burning heat of
the sun that I long to feel. How I do want to be warm, all through my
veins. I've wanted it always. Even at the most sacred hours, when I
ought to have forgotten that I had a body, I've shivered and yearned to
be warm--warm to the heart. I shall go to Italy and bask in the sun."
"Marie used to say that, too, that she wanted to be warm," Peter
murmured in an odd, hesitating, shamefaced way. And she looked at the
novice intently, as she had looked before. Mary's white cheeks were
faintly stained with rose, and her eyes dilated. Peter had never seen
quite the same expression on her face, or heard quite the same ring in
her voice. The girl felt that the different, unknown self she had
spoken of was beginning already to waken and stir in the nun's soul.
"Marie!" Sister Rose repeated. "It's odd you should have spoken of
Marie. I've been thinking about her lately. I can't get her out of my
head. And I've dreamed of seeing her--meeting her unexpectedly
somewhere."
"Perhaps she's been thinking of you, wherever she is, and you feel her
mind calling to yours. I believe in such things, don't you?"
"I never thought much about them before, I suppose because I've had so
few people outside who were likely to think of me. No one but you. Or
perhaps Marie, if she ever does think of old times. I wish I could meet
her, not in dreams, but really."
"Queerer things have happened. And if you're going to travel you can't
tell but you may run across each other," said Peter. "I've sometimes
caught myself wondering whether I should see her in New York, for there
it's like London and Monte Carlo--the most unexpected people are always
turning up."
"Is Monte Carlo like that?" Mary asked, with the quick, only half-veiled
curiosity which Peter had noticed in her before when relating her own
adventures on the Riviera.
"Yes. More than any other place I've ever been to in the world. Every
one comes--anything can happen--there. But I don't want to talk about
Monte Carlo. You really wouldn't find it half as interesting as your
beloved Italy. And I shouldn't like to think of poor Marie drifting
there, either--Marie as she must be now."
"I used to hope," Mary said, "that she might come back here, after
everything turned out so dreadfully for her, and that she'd decide to