tures to shame--for are we ever as
true to our vows as the lark to his mate?--are we as sincere in our
thanksgivings for the sunlight as the merry robin who sings as blithely
in the winter snow as in the flower-filled mornings of spring? Nay--not
we! Our existence is but one long impotent protest against God,
combined with an insatiate desire to get the better of one another in
the struggle for base coin!

Nina listened--and shivered, drawing her light scarf more closely about
her shoulders.

"I hate them," she said, pettishly; "their noise is enough to pierce
one's ears. And HE used to be so fond of them! he used to sing--what
was it?

'Ti salute, Rosignuolo,
Nel tuo duolo, il saluto!
Sei l'amante delta rosa
Che morendo si fa sposa!'"

Her rich voice rippled out on the air, rivaling the songs of the
nightingales themselves. She broke off with a little laugh--

"Poor Fabio! there was always a false note somewhere when he sung.
Come, Guido!"

And they paced on quietly, as though their consciences were clean--as
though no just retribution dogged their steps--as though no shadow of a
terrible vengeance loomed in the heaven of their pilfered happiness! I
watched them steadily as they disappeared in the distance--I stretched
my head eagerly out from between the dark boughs and gazed after their
retreating figures till the last glimmer of my wife's white robe had
vanished behind the thick foliage. They were gone--they would return no
more that night.

I sprung out from my hiding-place. I stood on the spot where they had
stood. I tried to bring home to myself the actual truth of what I had
witnessed. My brain whirled--circles of light swam giddily before me in
the air--the moon looked blood-red. The solid earth seemed unsteady
beneath my feet--almost I doubted whether I was indeed alive, or
whether I was not rather the wretched ghost of my past self, doomed to
return from the grave to look helplessly upon the loss and ruin of all
the fair, once precious things of by-gone days. The splendid universe
around me seemed no more upheld by the hand of God--no more a majestic
marvel; it was to me but an inflated bubble of emptiness--a mere ball
for devils to kick and spurn through space! Of what avail these
twinkling stars--these stately leaf-laden trees--these cups of
fragrance we know as flowers--this round wonder of the eyes called
Nature? of what avail was God Himself, I widely mused, since even He
could not