Statistics: The Art and Science of Learning from Data [RENTAL EDITION] Coll all chapter instant download
Statistics: The Art and Science of Learning from Data [RENTAL EDITION] Coll all chapter instant download
com
https://ebookmeta.com/product/statistics-the-art-and-
science-of-learning-from-data-rental-edition-coll/
OR CLICK BUTTON
DOWNLOAD NOW
https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-art-of-statistics-how-to-learn-from-
data-david-spiegelhalter/
ebookmeta.com
https://ebookmeta.com/product/data-mining-and-exploration-from-
traditional-statistics-to-modern-data-science-1st-edition-chong-ho-
alex-yu/
ebookmeta.com
https://ebookmeta.com/product/public-service-ethics-individual-and-
institutional-responsibilities-3rd-edition-james-s-bowman/
ebookmeta.com
Families Relationships and Intimate Life 2nd edition
Deborah Dempsey Jo Lindsay
https://ebookmeta.com/product/families-relationships-and-intimate-
life-2nd-edition-deborah-dempsey-jo-lindsay/
ebookmeta.com
https://ebookmeta.com/product/business-101-the-art-of-war-quick-study-
business-becky-sheetz/
ebookmeta.com
https://ebookmeta.com/product/orientalism-and-reverse-orientalism-in-
literature-and-film-beyond-east-and-west-1st-edition-sharmani-
patricia-gabriel/
ebookmeta.com
https://ebookmeta.com/product/bearheart-rebel-1st-edition-harmony-
raines/
ebookmeta.com
https://ebookmeta.com/product/new-women-s-writing-contextualising-
fiction-poetry-and-philosophy-1st-edition-subashish-bhattacharjee/
ebookmeta.com
American English Grammar: An Introduction 1st Edition Katz
https://ebookmeta.com/product/american-english-grammar-an-
introduction-1st-edition-katz/
ebookmeta.com
GLOBAL
EDITION
STATISTICS
THE ART AND SCIENCE OF LEARNING FROM DATA
FIFTH EDITION
Alan Agresti
University of Florida
Christine Franklin
University of Georgia
Bernhard Klingenberg
Williams College and New College of Florida
The rights of Alan Agresti, Christine A. Franklin, and Bernhard Klingenberg to be identified as the authors of this work have
been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Authorized adaptation from the United States edition, entitled Statistics: The Art and Science of Learning from Data, 5th
Edition, ISBN 978-0-13-646876-9 by Alan Agresti, Christine A. Franklin, and Bernhard Klingenberg published by Pearson
Education © 2021.
PEARSON, ALWAYS LEARNING, and MYLAB are exclusive trademarks owned by Pearson Education, Inc. or its
affiliates in the U.S. and/or other countries.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without either the prior written permission of the
publisher or a license permitting restricted copying in the United Kingdom issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency Ltd,
Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. For information regarding permissions, request forms and the
appropriate contacts within the Pearson Education Global Rights & Permissions department, please visit
www.pearsoned.com/permissions/.
All trademarks used herein are the property of their respective owners. The use of any trademark in this text does not vest in
the author or publisher any trademark ownership rights in such trademarks, nor does the use of such trademarks imply any
affiliation with or endorsement of this book by such owners. For information regarding permissions, request forms, and the
appropriate contacts within the Pearson Education Global Rights and Permissions department, please visit
www.pearsoned.com/permissions/.
Attributions of third-party content appear on page 921, which constitutes an extension of this
copyright page.
This eBook is a standalone product and may or may not include all assets that were part of the print version. It also does not
provide access to other Pearson digital products like MyLab and Mastering. The publisher reserves the right to remove any
material in this eBook at any time.
Preface 10
1.3 Organizing Data, Statistical Software, and the New Field 3.2 The Relationship Between Two Quantitative
of Data Science 42 Variables 146
Part Two
P
robability, Probability Distributions,
and Sampling Distributions
Chapter 5 Probability in Our Daily 5.3 Conditional Probability 275
Part Four
Extended Statistical Methods and Models for
Analyzing Categorical and Quantitative Variables
Chapter 11 Categorical Data Chapter Summary 643
11.4 Using Residuals to Reveal the Pattern of 12.2 Inference About Model Parameters and the
Association 631 Relationship 663
11.5 Fisher’s Exact and Permutation Tests 635 12.3 Describing the Strength of the Relationship 670
12.4 How the Data Vary Around the Regression Line 681 Chapter 14 Comparing Groups: Analysis
12.5 Exponential Regression: A Model for Nonlinearity 693 of Variance Methods 760
Chapter Summary 698
14.1 One-Way ANOVA: Comparing Several Means 761
Chapter Exercises 701
14.2 Estimating Differences in Groups for a Single
Factor 772
Chapter 13 Multiple Regression 707 14.3 Two-Way ANOVA: Exploring Two Factors and Their
13.1 Using Several Variables to Predict a Response 708 Interaction 781
2
13.2 Extending the Correlation Coefficient and R for Multiple Chapter Summary 795
Regression 714 Chapter Exercises 797
13.3 Inferences Using Multiple Regression 720
13.4 Checking a Regression Model Using Residual Chapter 15 Nonparametric Statistics 804
Plots 731
15.1 Compare Two Groups by Ranking 805
13.5 Regression and Categorical Predictors 737
15.2 Nonparametric Methods for Several Groups and for
13.6 Modeling a Categorical Response: Logistic Dependent Samples 816
Regression 743
Chapter Summary 827
Chapter Summary 752
Chapter Exercises 829
Chapter Exercises 754
Appendix A-833
Answers A-839
Index I-865
Index of Applications I-872
Credits C-877
• The Times Series app plots a simple time series and can
add a smooth or linear trend.
• The Random Numbers app generates random numbers
(with or without replacement) and simulates flipping Screenshot from the Normal Distribution app
(potentially biased) coins.
• The three Sampling Distribution apps generate sampling
• The Mean vs. Median app allows users to add or delete distributions of the sample proportion or the sample
points by clicking in a graph and observing the effect of mean (for both continuous and discrete populations).
outliers or skew on these two statistics. Sliders for the sample size or population parameters help
• The Scatterplots & Correlation and the Explore Lin- with discovering and exploring the Central Limit Theo-
ear Regression apps allow users to add or delete points rem interactively. In addition to the uniform, skewed,
from a scatterplot and observe how the correlation co- bell-shaped, or bimodal population distributions, several
efficient or the regression line are affected. The Guess real population data sets (such as the distances traveled
the Correlation app lets users guess the correlation for by all taxis rides in NYC on Dec. 31) are preloaded.
Screenshot from the Sampling Distribution for the Sample Mean app
10
Our Approach
In 2005 (and updated in 2016), the American Statistical Association (ASA) en-
dorsed guidelines and recommendations for the introductory statistics course as
described in the report, “Guidelines for Assessment and Instruction in Statistics
Education (GAISE) for the College Introductory Course” (www.amstat.org/
education/gaise). The report states that the overreaching goal of all introductory
statistics courses is to produce statistically educated students, which means that
students should develop statistical literacy and the ability to think statistically.
The report gives six key recommendations for the college introductory course:
1. Teach statistical thinking.
• Teach statistics as an investigative process of problem solving and decision
making.
• Give students experience with multivariable thinking.
2. Focus on conceptual understanding.
3. Integrate real data with a context and purpose.
4. Foster active learning.
5. Use technology to explore concepts and analyze data.
6. Use assessments to improve and evaluate student learning.
We wholeheartedly support these recommendations and our textbook takes
every opportunity to implement these guidelines.
Student Support
To draw students to important material we highlight key definitions, and provide
summaries in blue boxes throughout the book. In addition, we have four types of
margin notes:
In Words • In Words: This feature explains, in plain language, the definitions and symbolic
To find the 95% confidence notation found in the body of the text (which, for technical accuracy, must be
interval, you take the sample more formal).
proportion and add and subtract • Caution: These margin boxes alert students to areas to which they need to pay
1.96 standard errors. special attention, particularly where they are prone to make mistakes or incor-
rect assumptions.
• Recall: As the student progresses through the book, concepts are presented that
Recall depend on information learned in previous chapters. The Recall margin boxes
From Section 8.2, for using a confidence direct the reader back to a previous presentation in the text to review and rein-
interval to estimate a proportion p, the
force concepts and methods already covered.
standard error of a sample proportion
pn is • Did You Know: These margin boxes provide information that helps with the
pn 11 - pn 2 contextual understanding of the statistical question under consideration or pro-
. b vides additional information.
B n
Statistics: In Practice
We realize that there is a difference between proper academic statistics and what
is actually done in practice. Data analysis in practice is an art as well as a science.
Although statistical theory has foundations based on precise assumptions and
conditions, in practice the real world is not so simple. In Practice boxes and text
references alert students to the way statisticians actually analyze data in practice.
These comments are based on our extensive consulting experience and research
and by observing what well-trained statisticians do in practice.
"Alas, madam," he said. "The pity of it. How sad that the industrious
artist whose work I am contemplating should have lacked those blessings of
education which you, ma'am, are so signally qualified to impart! I protest
that neither this cærulean quadruped nor the blushing vegetable to whose
apex he aspires are to be found figured on any of the numerous pages which
the late spendthrift Goldsmith devoted to the description of Animated
Nature. I protest—"
So did Crowberry père, who had been listening to some eager talk of Sir
Percy's. He gave Crowberry fils a kick under the narrow table, and once
more lent Sir Percy his right ear.
"Mine?" she said gratefully. "How good you are! But no. It's old and
valuable. I could never think of it."
"Very old," smiled Antonio. "The potter made it last year for the village
fair. And very valuable. My man, José, bought twelve of them for a penny
each. It is not worth naming."
At the news that she could possess the blue and orange bird without
leaving her host more than one penny the worse Isabel was as pleased as a
child. Meanwhile, Sir Percy continued his conversation with Mr. Crowberry
and ignored his daughter. A Portuguese papa would have kept sharp ears
and eyes upon his offspring; but the monk knew too much of English ways
to be surprised.
José stamped in with the trout. When he had set them down and there
was no further risk of his dropping both fishes and dishes on the stone floor,
Antonio disclosed his name, his offices, and his virtues to the company, in
English and in Portuguese. José blushed, saluted, and fled.
"I mean the word, not the thing," he explained. "The azulejos up at the
abbey are not Moorish, of course. They are of the seventeenth century,
produced under Dutch influence, but far finer, I think, than any Delft. All
the same, we have genuine Moorish azulejos in Portugal; for example, in
the Palace at Cintra."
"We'll talk about it later on. Not now. After dinner," said Mr. Crowberry
hastily. "Sir Percy, you've not tasted your wine."
The wine-merchant himself had already tasted three glasses. The wine
was a white wine, somewhat resembling a very dry sherry, but as refreshing
as young Moselle. The two Crowberrys praised its clearness, Isabel admired
its color, Mrs. Baxter said it was a little sour, and Sir Percy, having drained
his glass at a single gulp, kindly said he would have some more.
The lifting of the great casserole's lid filled the room with fragrant
vapors. With this dish José served a salad of bitter oranges and three bottles
of the farm's best red wine. Mrs. Baxter said that this wine would be
improved by the addition of a little hot water, nutmeg, and honey.
Unhappily the Crowberrys, whose hearts were with the ports and fruity
Burgundies, also failed to note its subtler beauties. Nevertheless, the older
Crowberry drank a whole bottle by himself, and then loudly insisted on
trying the new champagne.
"To the Queens of England and Portugal. May their Majesties and their
subjects be happy. God save the Queens."
Everybody stood up and drank. José, knowing that some good work was
a-doing, saluted. But when the others sat down again, Mr. Crowberry
remained standing.
"I haven't done yet," he said. "There's another toast. Ladies and
gentlemen, I take leave to propose the health of Senhor Francisco Manoel
Oliveira da Rocha. May God forgive him for having such a name. Ladies
and gentlemen, he's a jolly good fellow. Personally, I don't like his claret;
but, to be candid, I don't like anybody's. I've tasted worse stuff from
Bordeaux at half a guinea a bottle."
Young Crowberry applauded noisily. Mrs. Baxter, who had dined well,
blinked at the speaker like a sleepy pussy-cat. Sir Percival listened with
almost excessive politeness. He had emerged from his abstraction, and was
ashamed of his earlier brusqueness. Isabel's gaze was riveted on her painted
plate.
Young Crowberry, using both hands, rattled the blades of two knives
against the rims of two plates, at the same time stamping on the stone floor
and yapping out, "Hear, hear!" in a voice like a terrier's bark. The toast was
drunk.
"And now," Antonio went on, "I have a toast on my own account,
though I'm the only one to drink it. I propose the health of my guests. Mr.
Crowberry's was the only face I knew when I landed in your beautiful
England, and his was the last face I saw when I sailed away. Without his
generosity I might not be on this farm to-day. It does me good to see him
again. He is—I hope I'm pronouncing the word right—he's a
jolligoodfellow."
"And so say I," sang out young Crowberry. "He's a block of the young
chip."
"As for Sir Percival Kaye-Templeman and ... and Her Ladyship," added
the monk, suddenly becoming hazy as to the status of a baronet's daughter,
"I am indeed happy to have such neighbors. We place our services, such as
they are, entirely at their Excellencies' disposal; and at Madame Baxter's
also. Mr. Crowberry, you are aware, sir, that I used to work in the abbey
vineyards, over seven years ago. I knew all the monks. I knew the old
Abbot. He was a saint. He died a day or two after they turned him out, at
Navares, the little town you passed through this morning. So it is natural I
should have a great deal of reverence for the old place. And I am thankful,
more thankful than words can express, that it has passed to owners who will
not hold so sacred a spot in disrespect. Often and often I have feared for its
fate."
"What about Me?" he asked. "I'm a guest, and you haven't praised Me?
Why ain't I a jolligoodfellow, too?"
"You are already jolly and, some day, I hope you will be good," said
Antonio, smiling good-humoredly at his pupil. "Ladies and gentlemen, with
my whole heart, I drink to you all."
The four men drank. Isabel darted a grateful glance at young Crowberry,
as if to thank him for delivering her from a painful situation; but he did not
see it. Mrs. Baxter sat up, gasped, blushed, and managed to say:
"Last not least, here's to José, the cook," cried young Crowberry, and,
raising his voice, he called through the door in Portuguese: "Hola, José,
how the devil are we to drink your health when there isn't any more wine?"
After José had been toasted and had saluted in response, Antonio
suggested that he had detained his visitors too long, and that they were
doubtless wishing to see more of their new home before dark. Sir Percy
seemed grateful. Pulling himself together, he acknowledged the monk's
hospitality with almost excessive earnestness, and pressed him to come
often to the abbey. They walked together to the road.
"Not a bit," said Antonio. "I know he will have a good home."
He stood watching the chariot as it rolled away. At the bend of the road
she turned and waved her hand.
IV
The wine-merchant and his son did not drive home with Sir Percy and
the ladies. They preferred to walk.
But Crowberry père, following hard on his heels, swiftly sent the youth
about his business. He wanted ten minutes' talk, he said, with Antonio
alone.
"Da Rocha," he began, as they paced the shady length of the chief
pergola; "believe me, it was one of the greatest disappointments of my life
when I could not lend you the two thousand pounds you wrote for. If I'd
only had sense enough to stick to wine, you could have had the money
twice over in a jiffy. But I'm up to the ears in these damned railways; and
Heaven only knows what will be the end."
"More likely a big smash. But leave all that. It's too late to alter it. Now,
about these abbey vineyards. It struck me that I might get somebody to buy
the buildings and to lease you the vineyards on easy terms. The only man I
could think of was Sir Percy. I knew he was finding England a bit
uncomfortable. You see, he's gone through nearly all his money."
"You say he has spent all his money," objected Antonio. "If so, how
could he buy the abbey?"
"Wait," said Mr. Crowberry. "Men like Sir Percy can't get down to their
last penny as easily as you or I. Sir Percy's is an old family—older than any
of our dukes, save one. Families like those are all spread out, through
intermarriage. There's always some aunt or cousin, when it comes to the
worst, who will send you five hundred pounds and a nasty letter. In this
case, Sir Percy got the five hundred near home. It was his daughter Isabel's.
She has a separate estate that can't be pawned. This five hundred came out
of income."
"But the price of the abbey was three thousand pounds."
"Don't interrupt. It was three thousand guineas. That is, three thousand
pounds for the Lisbon Government and three hundred for the Fazenda
official. Two thousand eight hundred remain to be paid."
"I couldn't have managed it but for an amazing stroke of luck," Mr.
Crowberry continued. "Over these damned railways, I got mixed up with a
sort of broker who knew all about Portugal. I don't like him; but he's a
mighty clever fellow. Perhaps you know him. He got a peerage from your
Government for lending them money at forty per cent. He's the Viscount de
Ponte Quebrada."
"Strangely enough, he knew this very abbey. It was the week after I had
your letter. I told him that a friend of mine wanted to buy the vineyards; and
he recognized the name of the place at once. I tried to get him to lend you
two thousand on it; but he wouldn't do it to a stranger. Then I asked him to
lend it to Sir Percy; and he seemed quite struck with the idea.
"That very night he went and saw Sir Percy on his own account, and
they made some sort of three-cornered bargain. The Viscount has squared
the Fazenda, and he's given Sir Percy introductions for getting a railway
concession—Lisbon to Oporto—worth millions! I suspect the Viscount will
get the millions, and Sir Percy will be the figure-head. As for the two
thousand eight hundred, they've to pay three hundred on New Year's Day,
and the balance in five half-yearly instalments."
"Keep quiet. It seems the Viscount told Sir Percy, on the quiet, that there
are several jobs about this abbey which they can work together. He
mentioned one. These al—I mean, azulejos. Sir Percy has invented a way of
getting them down."
Antonio's heart almost stood still.
"They can't, they daren't," he cried at last. "Till the abbey is wholly paid
for, how dare they?"
"Who's to object? Hasn't the Fazenda man got three hundred, all for
himself? Isn't he going to do anything to earn the money? Da Rocha, I
always said you were not a man of the world. They dare, they can, and they
will rip down those damned old tiles. And when they've got them down here
they're going to get them down in other places—other old convents. The
Viscount can get six hundred pounds a set. They're wanted for museums
and galleries."
"So much the better for Sir Percy and the Viscount. That's how the
twenty-eight hundred is to be paid. It'll be all right. Now, about your lease
of the vineyards."
"Mr. Crowberry," said Antonio, halting and looking with a white face at
his friend. "Don't think me ungrateful. But this hurts me to the quick. What
if the monks should return to buy back their own? Nay, less. What if one of
them should merely revisit it? Those azulejos were their chief pride. What
will they say when they know that this, in a sense, is my doing; that it
wouldn't have happened if I had never written to you for money?"
"Who's going to tell 'em?" demanded the other, vexed. "If you don't,
nobody else will."
"Whether they ever know it or not," said Antonio, "I tell you I'd rather
you should pluck out one of my eyes than tear down those azulejos."
"No," he said, "I take that back. We won't quarrel. But you've upset me
badly. I go away on Thursday or Friday. We've only one clear day to fix this
lease. Don't be a fool."
"If the azulejos cannot be spared," replied Antonio, terribly agitated, "I
cannot become Sir Percy's tenant."
"But, my ridiculous friend, look here. Sir Percy doesn't want a tenant—
neither you nor anybody else. He's leasing you the vineyards to oblige me.
D'ye expect me to go and make conditions when he's doing you a favor?"
Antonio began pacing up and down, with bent head and hands clasped
behind his back. He strode, six steps this way and six steps back, over and
over again, with a feverish tread, like an animal in a cage. After a full
minute he threw up his head, and said:
"What do you really and truly think of Isabel?" asked young Crowberry,
who had headed Antonio off among the trees. This time he meant to have
his answer.
The monk looked at him sadly, and passed a hand over his burning eyes.
"The Senhorita and I talked very little," he replied. "So far as I know, I
like her."
"Yes."
"And clever?"
"She's as clever as a don. That's the trouble. All head, no heart. And as
proud as Lucifer."
Young Crowberry saw that Antonio could hardly endure his chatter.
At first Antonio shook his head. But the youth's frank distress touched
him. The trouble was too great to be confined within one breast; so he
detailed Sir Percy's plan. When he had finished he added:
"But why should I worry you with all this? You are young, you are
buoyant. You have been brought up amidst different religious ideas. This is
a matter you cannot understand."
Young Crowberry gripped the monk's fore-arm with a quick, fierce grip.
As he let it drop, he retorted intensely:
"Senhor da Rocha, as you say, I am young. But even I have learned one
thing that you haven't. There is not always a merry heart under a cap and
bells. My jabber is flippant, no doubt. But ... but God knows how much I
care for the things you say I can't understand."
"You don't mean to tell me, Edward," he said, "that you have begun to
care about religion—to care deeply with all your heart?"
But Mr. Crowberry appeared in the doorway of the house and stepped
out to join them. His son saw him, and said hurriedly in Antonio's ear:
"We leave on Thursday. I want a talk—a long one, a quiet one. Your
man José told me a tale about a ghost in the chapel. I said I would watch
there to-morrow night. I can get the key. Say that you will join me. But not
a word to anybody."
"The gentlemen are all down at the other buildings," said the English
maid-servant who opened the guest-house door to Antonio. "I think they
said they would be in the chapel. Miss Kaye-Templeman is in, and Mrs.
Baxter."
After he had repeated his name twice, the maid led him into the tiny
ante-chamber. Antonio saw that the engraved portrait of Saint Benedict had
been taken down. It was leaning in a corner, face to the wall; and, in its
stead, hung a small oil-painting of two horses and a stable-boy, in the
manner of Morland. The large crucifix had been removed from the place of
honor; but its shape could still be seen, like the shadow of a dim cross on
the white wall.
As Antonio passed through the inner door he saw that Isabel was alone.
She rose and came forward with such complete control of her blue eyes that
the monk had a momentary fear of not being wanted. But there was warmth
in her voice and a welcome in her smile. When she caught sight of the
gaudy bowl in her visitor's hand she gave a little cry of unaffected joy.
"You've brought the blue bird," she said. "I felt quite sure you would
forget all about him. How can I thank you properly?"
"By saying no more about such a trifle," answered Antonio, placing the
bowl in her hand.
Hardly listening, she turned her treasure this way and that, as if it had
been a piece of Sèvres. For the first time Antonio was able to look at her
critically. She was only a head shorter than himself; which meant that she
was taller than six women out of seven. She stood up as straight as her
father; but, while Sir Percy looked as though he had swallowed a steel
ramrod, Isabel Kaye-Templeman was as graceful and supple as a perfectly-
grown young tree. She was slender, yet so exquisitely developed in
proportion to her height that Antonio felt he was never likely to see a more
perfect figure. Her abundant hair was brown-golden—perhaps more golden
than brown—and as fine as threads of silk.
Finding the Portuguese October warmer than an English July, Isabel had
put on a high-waisted, full-skirted dress of pink-sprigged muslin. Over the
shoulders, which were cut rather low, she wore a gauzy scarf, unprimly
fastened at the throat by an unjeweled brooch of old gold. As she fondled
the penny bowl Antonio observed the fine whiteness and slenderness of her
wrists and fingers and the high-bred grace of every little movement.
"You will excuse Mrs. Baxter?" Isabel asked, suddenly coming back to
formality. "She lies down in the afternoon. My father and the others are at
the abbey. Shall we go down and join them? They expect you. I think they
want you to help them."
While Isabel was upstairs putting on her gloves and hat Antonio paced
up and down the familiar room. A carpet, some easy chairs, two small
tables, and very many pictures and ornaments had already been unpacked.
Most of these importations were pleasing in themselves; but they were
incongruous with a Portuguese interior, especially when it was the interior
of a semi-monastic building. Antonio, however, hardly gave all this bric-à-
brac a glance. He was revolving in his mind, for the twentieth time, a bold
plan.
"This is not the way," said Isabel, halting after they had walked forty or
fifty yards.
"It is not the shortest way, but it is the best," Antonio answered. "It takes
only five minutes longer and it passes the most beautiful spot in the whole
domain."
She seemed a shade vexed, and did not speak again until they reached
the spot of which Antonio had spoken. It was part of a ravine. Rustic steps
led down to the margin of the water, which broadened in this place to a
rippling pool. From a face of brown rock, to the right, the bright torrent
came tumbling in a thunderous cascade. To the left, at the lower end of the
pool, it raced seawards almost hidden in a leafy, ferny, stony channel,
whence its voice ascended like the throbbing, booming sound of an organ.
Generation after generation of monkish gardeners had chosen this sheltered
spot for the rearing of their most precious trees. Araucarias, deodars, date-
palms, and cedars of Lebanon were mingled with cork-oaks, eucalyptus,
willows, sea-pines, plum-trees, planes, and chestnuts. Ten or twelve tree-
ferns overtopped by a giant palm suggested a tropical forest. Stepping-
stones had been fixed in the pool at its narrowest part, and on the other bank
was a grotto-chapel hewn in the face of a boulder as big as a house.
The stepping-stones were slippery with spray from the loud cascade; but
Isabel tripped from one to another confidently and easily, scarcely touching
Antonio's proffered hand. On the further bank she paused, to take breath,
and stood gazing westward. Below her lay a hundred acres of wood, softly
musical with the twittering and singing of birds and with the hum of the
hidden torrent. Further down rose the monastery. Beyond, in the plain,
could be seen Antonio's farm; and, still further to the west, the Atlantic.
"It is very beautiful," was all her answer. She spoke it in so cheerless a
tone that Antonio was concerned.
"England is beautiful too," he said. "At first it is only natural you should
be homesick."
"Homesick?" she echoed, suddenly facing him with defiant eyes. "I'm
not homesick. I don't know what it means. I don't know what Home means,
either."
Antonio was startled. Three or four speeches came to his tongue's tip,
some of them inquisitive, all of them sympathetic. Finally he said:
"Home is not built in a day. I myself was not bred and born in this part
of Portugal. At first every face was strange. But it is home now. This torrent
is the stream that runs through the kitchen of the abbey where I used to
work. It is the brook that refreshes my little farm. Once it was no more to
me than so many gallons of water. Now it talks and sings to me like a
friend. Little by little you will learn to love this place."
"I loved it as soon as I saw it," she retorted. "But I don't love it now. I
loved it for about three hours."
"Then," she continued, with a visible effort, "I ... longed with all my
soul to be back in England. You said ... you remember what you said about
our respecting this sacred place?"
"Well," she said, "we haven't come from England to respect this sacred
place in the least. We have come to ruin and defile it. Those blue-and-white
tile-pictures in the chapel are the most wonderful things I've ever seen; but
we have come to tear them down. We have come to use the big rooms and
long corridors for all sorts of experiments. We shall make them grimy with
smoke and foul with fumes; and some fine day we shall have an accident
and blow the whole place into the Atlantic, and ourselves with it."
"That isn't all," she added more bitterly than ever. "When they've fished
us up out of the Atlantic and dressed our wounds we shall start making
plans for a railway. We shall lose all our own money and make all the
honest people in the district lose theirs too. But what will it matter? We
shall get something for our gold and silver. We shall be honored with the
company of the men who're going to make fortunes out of us and out of
your country—men who don't know their own grandfathers. One of them
will be kind enough to buy this domain from us for an old song and to build
a fine square house out of the ruins. Senhor da Rocha, that is the way we
are going to respect your sacred place."
"Yes," she said. "The Senhor is right. The Senhorita is doing herself a
little injustice. She ought to add, in her own defense, that she wouldn't have
agreed so easily to come here had she known that anybody cared about the
place. She thought nobody would be one atom the worse, save the bats and
spiders. Yesterday she learned the truth. But she learned it too late."
"Too late?" he echoed. "No, it is not too late. You have great influence
with your father. There are fifty places in Portugal cheaper and more
accessible and all together more convenient than this for your experiments
and your railways."
"Don't call them mine," she commanded. "I hate and loathe them all.
But, I repeat, it is too late. Neither I nor anyone else in this world has a
grain of influence with my father. Opposition drives him mad."
Her tone was even more decisive than her words. But Antonio could not
face the fact that he was beaten. Had not Mr. Crowberry distinctly stated
that Sir Percy had gained possession of the abbey solely by the help of
Isabel's private fortune? She was not a schoolgirl. She was of full age; and
if she was paying the piper surely she had something to do with calling the
tune.
Yet how was he to remind her of her rights? Was not his intervention
sure to be resented as the extreme of impertinence? Mr. Crowberry had not
said that his revelations concerning the Kaye-Templeman finances were
made in confidence; but probably this was an oversight of which it would
be mean to take advantage.
"Those tiles were not the work of one hireling artist. In a sense the
whole community drew and painted them. Until they were turned out the
monks cherished the archives of their abbey; and these showed how, under
three successive Abbots, the cartoons gradually grew to perfection. Look.
From here you can see the cemetery where the bones of those dead monks
lie. Their souls will bless you from heaven if you will spare the chapel they
made so glorious."
"Senhor da Rocha," said Isabel, dryly and rather coldly, "we are at cross
purposes. You will be shocked; but I can't help it. I don't believe in monks
and monasteries, nuns and nunneries. The monks' heaven is my hell. Their
God is my Devil. Forgive me if I hurt you; but it seems to me that there can
be only two kinds of monks. Those who are not fanatics are hypocrites; and
those who are not hypocrites are fanatics. How can any really sane and
honest man worship the Creator by despising His creation?"
"No. Forgive me. I have spoken too plainly. Let me return to the point. I
mean this: on behalf of any ordinary man or woman who loves this place
for old sakes' sake I would work my hardest to spare it. But not for dead
monks."
"Then work your hardest for me," pleaded Antonio eagerly. "Don't you
regard me as an ordinary man, who loves the place for old sakes' sake?"
"No, I don't," she said, recovering her ease. "You are not an ordinary
man. You will grieve over the azulejos for a few days; then, amidst your
many interests, you will forget them. Or, better still, you will come to be
glad that they have been taken away from a dark, shut-up hill-side sepulcher
and placed where millions of people can see them and admire them."
His own illustration startled him. It had leaped into his mind and out
from his lips without his consent. It startled Isabel still more; for the tones
in which it was uttered were sharper than knives. Once more she lost the
mastery over her eyes.
"We must be going," she said curtly, as soon as she could frame a
sentence.
They descended through the wood without further speech until the
monastery gleamed between the trees. Then Isabel halted and said:
"I thank you with all my soul," answered the monk. "But I will exact no
promises. As you say, you are the best judge."
"Let me speak one more word—for your comfort," she added. "This
morning my father returned from the chapel dejected. He is no longer
confident that he can strip the azulejos from the wall. Remember, not a
single tile must be broken or the buyer will not have them. My father may
fail."
"God grant he may," said Antonio fervently.
"You must indulge me," she answered, "if I find it a trifle hard to say
Amen."
VI
"Our respective sires have verily got them gone," said young
Crowberry. And, dropping his affectation, he added, "I don't know how you
managed to miss 'em, coming down from the house."
To his own they went. The monk could never enter the narrow room
without emotion, and he was forced to go to the window to hide his
anguish. What if this should prove to be his last entrance? What if Sir Percy
should indeed defile and destroy the whole abbey?
"What did you expect?" asked Antonio, turning round and speaking
coldly.
"I've no idea. But I know I didn't expect cleanliness," she said. "Who is
this bishop? They seem to have stuck his portrait up all over the place."
"He is not a bishop," put in young Crowberry. "He is Saint Benedict, the
great Abbot, father of all the monks of the West."
Antonio started. The young man's tone was respectful, and it was
evident that he was speaking sympathetically of matters about which he had
been reading and thinking. Isabel, however, took little notice of the answer.
As usual, she hardly recognized young Crowberry's continued existence.
One after another she pulled out Antonio's empty drawers and opened his
empty cupboards. Had she realized that the monks had been expelled only
seven years before and that many of them must be still living, nothing in the
world would have induced her to pry into their sancta; but it was evident
that she pictured the monks of Portugal pretty much as she pictured the
monks of old England. To her they were forgotten men, vanished into dust
ages ago; and there could be no more indelicacy in ransacking their old
haunts than in examining the sculptures of a long-empty sarcophagus.
From the cell they went to the cloister. There Isabel quickly espied the
spiral staircase; and, having ascended it, she sat down on Antonio's favorite
seat of cork. The quiet beauty of the scene subdued her; and not a syllable
was spoken until they had retraced their steps and reached the monks'
entrance to the chapel.
Before setting foot in the monastery young Crowberry had thrown away
his cigar; and on the chapel threshold, with unostentatious reverence, he
uncovered his head. They went in, young Crowberry leading.
"First," he said, "we have the Saint's birth. Like our divine Lord, he was
born an outcast. His mother and father were on pilgrimage. Notice the Latin
scroll, Non erat eis locus in diversorio: 'There was no room for them in the
inn.' Through the trees you see the village of Carcavoa as it was before the
earthquake, with a Gothic church and two spires."
The next picture was the one from which Sir Percy had removed the
cornice; but Antonio did not change his tone.
The third picture was pierced by the doorway which gave access to the
cloisters; and the designers of the azulejos had made bold use of what might
have been a disfigurement. The picture showed a small monastery. The
gables, the dormer windows, the round arches, and the stumpy belfry of this
little monastery were depicted in blue, on the tiles; but where there ought to
have been a blue-painted doorway one saw the solid jamb and lintel of the
doorway through which young Crowberry and the others had entered the
chapel. The figure of the Saint was nowhere to be seen; but all the men and
women in the picture were crowding hurriedly towards the doorway as if
they would see the last of somebody who had passed into the cloister.
Above the solid lintel chubby blue boys were painted lying on their chests
and trying to look down into the building.
Antonio successively pointed out the pictures of the Saint's first Mass,
with blue angels helping to uphold the Chalice, and of the Saint's first
miracle, with Oporto in the distance. This ended the series on the north
wall. At the marble balustrade of the gilded sanctuary, he explained the
stalls, the retablo, and the boldly-ribbed Gothic vaulting, at least a century
older than the nave. Then he worked back along the south wall, making
short comments on the Saint's shipwreck and second miracle, his preaching
to prisoners, his landing in England, and his visit to the Abbey of
Westminster, once Benedictine.
"Your Westminster Abbey looks strange," said Antonio. "It is before the
alterations of Wren; but I admit the faults of the picture. The next one is
better. It is the Saint's death at—I think you pronounce it Tyburn. The
horses and most of the faces are quite English. The hurdle on which he has
been drawn is broken. Notice the one-eyed man with the butcher's knife. On
the scroll are the Saint's last words, the same as Saint Stephen's, Domine ne
statuas illis hoc peccatum: 'Lord, lay not this sin to their charge.'"
This tenth, and last of the tile-pictures was on the left of the western
door; but not until Antonio ceased speaking did he notice a small leather-
covered box resting on the ground at the foot of the green and yellow
border of azulejos. It was gilt-lettered P. L. K.-T. The lid was off, showing
the stoppers of four chemists' bottles and some fine steel tools.
In the same instant, both Antonio and young Crowberry had the same
thought. "Lord, lay not this sin to their charge." The words were grimly
appropriate to Sir Percy's act of sacrilege; yet young Crowberry felt sure
that Antonio had only recognized their appropriateness when it was too late.
As for the monk, although his eyes met Isabel's for no more than a moment,
he saw that she was wounded.
"When was the Saint hanged?" asked young Crowberry, in order to end
the awkward pause. "In what reign?"
Young Crowberry opened his eyes wide. The monk, however, had
already realized his second mishap.
He sprang after the lady and overtook her in the cloister, although she
quickened her footsteps at the noise of Antonio's. When she saw that
explanations were inevitable, she got in the first word.
He kept level with her as she walked; but she heard him with averted
eyes.
"I swear," he added, "that I was not talking at you. I swear I didn't catch
sight of your father's hateful tools till I had finished speaking. As for 'the
reign of Isabel,' I am a Portuguese. In Portuguese King Charles is Carlos,
King Edward is Duarte, King James is Thiago, Queen Elizabeth is Isabel.
Those bottles and tools upset me; and I forgot to translate the name."
When he saw that she neither vouchsafed him an answer nor paused in
her walk his pride was roused.
"One minute more, and I will not trouble the Senhorita again," he said,
with as much hauteur as her own. "I have offered an explanation and I have
sworn that it is true. As for insults, I never give them, though I receive
many. You are neither reasonable nor just. I have done."
He was turning away. But her pride broke down. She stopped and faced
him, and her blue eyes suddenly shone with a rush of tears.
"Yes," she cried. "Scold me, abuse me, make me wretched. It doesn't
seem natural for anybody to be kind very long. Hate the sight of me, like
everybody else. Call me unreasonable. So I am. Call me unjust. So I am. If
there's anything more, I'm ready."
Antonio stared at her in amazement as she clenched her fine hands and
stamped one of her small feet. "All head and no heart," young Crowberry
had said of this poor Isabel; and, for twenty-four hours, the monk had taken
it for granted that young Crowberry was right. Yet, as she stood wet-eyed
before him, she seemed to be all one big, bursting, breaking heart.
Her tears helped him like lenses to read her through and through. He
discerned the tragedy of her girlhood, passed between a selfish woman and
a father who was half a madman. He pictured her, dragged from place to
place, from failure to failure, from humiliation to humiliation. He
understood why she had builded icy barriers of pride to repel the insolent
pity of those who found entertainment in her father's fiascos. And he saw,
what she did not see herself, that under all her defenses and pretenses was
the heart of a little child. He was filled with a yearning to comfort her; but
he could only stand and gaze at her with infinite compassion.
He waited for her to say "I am miserable." But she had seen the pity in
his brown velvet eyes and it stung her.
VII
As the main path from the monastery to the guest-house was broad and
open, Miss Kaye-Templeman declined Antonio's protection. The glance and
tone, however, which softened her words of refusal suggested to the monk
that he was forgiven.
"I don't hate you," she retorted. "I never did hate you—not you in
particular. For the moment I simply hated every thing and every place and
every body. It's over now. Pray believe I don't make such an exhibition of
myself often. And please forget, if you can, that I was so weak and silly.
Good-bye. I will tell my father you are still at the abbey."
"I thought you had taken her up to the guest-house," he said, as they
walked out into the cloisters. "I heard you both go outside. I suppose you
wasted your breath. Isabel Kaye-Templeman will never forgive you."
"Then you've some magic power over her," declared young Crowberry.
"I thought so yesterday, at dinner. Now, I am sure of it. With everybody else
she's as hard as nails."
"I imagine that bitter experiences have made her suspicious and
reserved," said Antonio. "For that I don't blame her. But one thing pains me,
beyond words. I can understand Miss Kaye-Templeman having prejudices
against the Catholic Church; but she seems equally contemptuous of all
religion."
"At Sir Percy's house," explained young Crowberry, "or more strictly
speaking, at Sir Percy's innumerable houses and lodgings, you can depend
on meeting, any Sunday night, half a dozen second-rate men of science.
They're all anti-Christians and most of them are blank atheists. I've heard
them talk two or three times. Their position seems to be that we know more
than our grandfathers did about the way the world is made; and, therefore,
the world made itself. They can't argue; or, if they can, they don't. They
coolly take it for granted that everybody who still clings to Christianity is
an antiquated fool."
"You think clearly, Edward, and you talk sensibly. In a minute I'm going
to ask you about yourself," said Antonio. "But tell me. How far has this
poor Miss Isabel been perverted by what she has heard?"
"When she consented to come and live here," Edward replied, "I heard
somebody ask her how she would get on without an English church. Isabel
simply answered: 'If I've given up church-going, in England, why should I
begin it again in Portugal?'"
They emerged from the building and looked up the paths; but Sir Percy
was not in sight. Antonio led his companion back to the spiral stairway; and
when they were seated on the roof of the cloister he drew forth the truth
concerning young Crowberry's state of mind and soul.
From his English journals and reviews the monk had gathered some
imperfect notions of the new ecclesiastical movement which a scholar of
Cambridge had set going at Oxford. He knew the names of Pusey and of
Newman, and was conversant with the main argument of the notorious
"Tract Ninety," although it had issued from the press only a few months
before. But it was from the lips of Edward Crowberry that he received his
first connected account of the matter. The young man, as Antonio had said,
thought clearly and talked sensibly. Unlike the leaders of the movement he
was unembarrassed by the need to reconcile his new findings with his old
utterances; and therefore he saw further than much wiser men into the
movement's future. Perhaps some of his more striking sentences had
adhered to his mind after the perusal of books and articles; but he
understood what he had read, and he had made it his own.
"Our English skeptics," he said, "have thought to take away from us our
Christianity. Our Christianity remains; and we are also regaining the
Church. In England the very idea of the Church had almost passed away.
Our bishops had almost ceased to rule and to teach. Our sacraments had
become mere commemorations—like birthdays and anniversaries. But the
Church is emerging from the mists. I believe that in a hundred years from
now hardly any Christianity will be professed save in communion with the
Church. On the one side we shall have the ancient Church, boldly affirming
supernatural religion, proclaiming the deposit of faith, cherishing her holy
mysteries; and, on the other, we shall have a great band of thinkers and
teachers for whom this world is all. The nondescript waverers, betwixt and
between, will disappear. There will be only Isabel Kaye-Templemans and..."
"You are right," said young Crowberry. "That is their hope. But do not
judge them harshly. There is much in our national Church for us
Englishmen to be proud of. And there is much in our history, much in our
temperament, which will make our return to the Roman obedience a bitter
pill to swallow. I know little of the Eastern Church. There are hardly any
English books about it. But what has the East to do with England? On the
point which divided West and East, England believes with the West. No.
The only Church to which we can return is the Church from which we
broke away."
"You are young and sanguine," returned Antonio. "You will want more
than a hundred years before the English schism is ended. But I believe that,
before you are middle-aged, you will see thousands of individuals returning
home one by one. You have told me that these earnest men in Oxford claim
to be fighting the battle of the Apostolical Succession. Those men will soon
learn that they are already well advanced on the road to re-union with the
Apostolic See. The Church in England was destroyed by monarchs'
commands and by lawyers' pens; but it cannot be restored, bodily, by
similar means. It will be rebuilt out of individual converts, like the
Churches founded by the apostles. It will not be a wholesale, sudden, man-
made event like the conversion of the Franks after the baptism of Clovis."