On the afternoon of the third day he went into Saint Peter's, his frequent resort whenever the outer world was disagreeable.

From a heart-ache to a Roman rain there were few importunate pains the great church did not help him to forget.

He had wandered there for half an hour, when he came upon a short figure, lurking in the shadow of one of the great piers.

He saw it was that of an artist, hastily transferring to his sketch-book a memento of some fleeting variation in the scenery of the basilica; and in a moment he perceived that the artist was little Sam Singleton.
Singleton pocketed his sketch-book with a guilty air, as if it cost his modesty a pang to be detected in this greedy culture of opportunity.
Rowland always enjoyed meeting him; talking with him, in these days, was as good as a wayside gush of clear, cold water, on a long, hot walk.
There was, perhaps, no drinking-vessel, and you had to apply your lips to some simple natural conduit; but the result was always a sense of extreme moral refreshment.

On this occasion he mentally blessed the ingenuous little artist, and heard presently with keen regret that he was to leave Rome on the morrow.