on had
died out, her soul had ceased to be associated in religious observance.
Her mother had lived rather for the next world than for this; she had
regulated her every action, her every word, her every thought with that
end in view. In her precocious intellectual development, Luisa's ideas
and sentiments had taken another direction, with that determined vigour
which was one of her characteristics. She covered these views, however,
with certain half-conscious, half-unconscious dissimulations, partly for
love of her mother, partly because some germ of religion, sown by
maternal precepts, fostered by example, and strengthened by habit, had
not died out. Since her fourteenth year she had been growing ever more
inclined to look beyond this present life, and at the same time not to
consider herself; to live for others, for the earthly good of others,
but always, however, according to a strong and fierce sense of justice.
She went to church, performed the external duties of her religion,
without incredulity, but also without the conviction that they were
pleasing to God. She had a confused conception of a God so great, so
lofty, that no immediate contact was possible between Him and mankind.
Sometimes, indeed, she feared she might be mistaken, but her possible
error seemed to her of a nature such as no God of infinite goodness
might punish. She herself did not know how she had come to think thus.

The door opened very softly once more, and a low voice called, "Signor
Don Franco." When Luisa was alone she ceased to pray, and resting her
head upon her mother's pillow, she pressed her lips to the dear
shoulder, closed her eyes and let the flood of memories flow over her
that sprung from that touch, from that familiar odour of lavender. Her
mother's dress was of silk, her best, and had been a present from Uncle
Piero. She had worn it only once, some years before, on the occasion of
a visit to the Marchesa Marioni. The odour of the lavender brought back
this memory also, and with it came scalding tears, acrid with tenderness
and with another sentiment that was not actually hatred, that was not
actually anger, but that held the bitterness of both.

* * * * *

Franco could not at once account for the shudder that shook him when he
heard his name called. Early that morning Uncle Piero had written to
the Marchesa, announcing his sister's death in simple but most
respectful language, and had enclosed a