whatever my troubles may be. Are you not so fortunate?' A dreadful
expression of pain passed over her face. How could I see it, and not
feel the wish to sympathise with her? I ran the risk, and said, 'Do you
love somebody, who doesn't love you?'

"She turned her back on me, and went to the toilet-table. I think she
looked at herself in the glass. 'Well,' she said, speaking to me at
last, 'what else?'

"'Nothing else,' I answered--'except that I hope I have not offended
you.'

"She left the glass as suddenly as she had approached it, and took up
the candle again. Once more she held it so that it lit my face.

"'Guess who he is,' she said.

"'How can I do that?' I asked.

"She quietly put down the candle again. In some way, quite
incomprehensible to myself, I seemed to have relieved her. She spoke to
me in a changed voice, gently and sadly.

"You are the best of good girls, and you mean kindly. It's of no
use--you can do nothing. Forgive my insolence yesterday; I was mad with
envy of your happy marriage engagement. You don't understand such a
nature as mine. So much the better! ah, so much the better! Good-night!'

"There was such hopeless submission, such patient suffering, in those
words, that I could not find it in my heart to leave her. I thought of
how I might have behaved, of the wild things I might have said, if Ovid
had cared nothing for me. Had some cruel man forsaken her? That was
_her_ secret. I asked myself what I could do to encourage her. Your last
letter, with our old priest's enclosure, was in my pocket. I took it
out.

"'Would you mind reading a short letter,' I said, 'before we wish each
other goodnight?' I held out the priest's letter.

"She drew back with a dark look; she appeared to have some suspicion of
it. 'Who is the writer?' she inquired sharply.

"'A person who is a stranger to you.'

"Her face cleared directly. She took the letter from me, and waited to
hear what I had to say next. 'The person,' I told her, 'is a wise and
good old man--the priest who married my father and mother, and baptised
me. We all of us used to consult Father Patrizio, when we wanted advice.
My nurse Teresa felt anxious about me in Ovid's absence; she spoke to
him about my marriage engagement, and of my exile--forgive me for using
the word!--in this house. He said he would consider, before he gave her
his opinion. The next day, he sent her the letter which you have got in
your hand.'

"There, I came to