shivered. She thought of Leicester again, she
knew not why. Lately the thought of him had less and less possessed her
mind. A man who had died more than six years before had naturally become
more and more only a memory. She could not have told why she thought of
him, for this stranger, with his thick black beard and dark skin, bore
little resemblance to the pale-faced, clean-shaven man she had known and
loved years ago. Besides, the voice, the manner of speech were
different. He was cast in a larger mould than Leicester, too, and was
older by many years.

"I am afraid my speech is distasteful to you," went on Ricordo, "and I
plead your forgiveness. I am not used to your ways, your modes of
expression. And I trust I have not offended you. Believe me, such a
thought, such a desire is far from me."

"By no means," she said quickly. "I--I am very interested. Doubtless the
experiences of those who have lived in other lands are different from
those who spend their lives in surroundings such as these."

Signor Ricordo cast his eyes quickly around, and beheld one of the
fairest tracts of country on earth. Spring had come early, and the
bursting life everywhere made one think of a universal resurrection. All
nature seemed to be throwing off its grave-clothes. Woods and hedgerows,
fields and gardens seemed to be clothing themselves in a magic mantle
before their eyes, while the choirs of heaven were chanting for very
joy.

"I think it must be easy to be good amidst surroundings like these, and
on such a day as this," said Olive.

Ricordo stopped suddenly, and lifted his head. His eyes flamed with a
new light, his face betrayed passion.

"What is it all but mockery?" he said--"a promise never to be realised,
the fair skin which covers disease--rottenness? Signorina--forgive me.
But there are spots on earth fairer than this--fairer, yes, a thousand
times. Flowers, foliage, compared with which all that you see is but a
suggestion. The sun! Great Allah! have you seen an Eastern sun, have you
seen the prodigality with which nature scatters her beauty? But
goodness! When did ever natural beauty help what you call moral
goodness? In those places where nature has been most bountiful in her
gifts, there you find the blackest and foulest lives. What is
everything, if there is a canker at the heart; what matters if hell goes
on burning in our lives? Forgive me, signorina; if there is one thing in
which I have agreed with your Christ