hrew him aside with
scorn. Did he deserve her scorn? This I know, my poor friend, the byword
of those who knew him, overwhelmed with a hopeless passion, thrown on
the sea of life without anchor or rudder, drifted. Where? Ah, that is a
story I cannot tell. But this woman, who might have been his salvation,
and who professed to return his love, sent him into regions more
terrible than ever your Milton, or our Italian Dante, saw with the eyes
of vision."

"And where is he now?" asked Sprague.

"Where? That I cannot tell you. For a time I followed him, watched him,
as he sank deeper and deeper into the pit. I stood upon the brink and
looked in; but he had neither the strength nor the will to grasp my
hand, and if he had, I should not have been strong enough to have pulled
him out."

"And the woman?" asked Sprague.

"The woman is, I believe, meditating marriage with some one else. A
common story, I know. Perhaps you could tell similar ones; perhaps, too,
the commonness of such stories makes me afraid."

He was sitting back in his chair as he spoke. His eyes were half closed
and he lazily smoked his cigar. Nevertheless, Olive thought he was
watching her furtively. But perhaps that was because his story aroused
memories which made the past live again.

From this time the conversation drifted on to other subjects, and Signor
Ricordo made himself vastly agreeable. Without in any degree
monopolising the conversation, he became the centre of interest. He
showed that, although an Eastern, he was acquainted with English
literature, and although he spoke English with a peculiar intonation, he
expressed his thoughts with great clearness. Olive said but little. The
story he had told contained such a meaning for her, that she had no
desire to speak; nevertheless, she listened eagerly to his every word.
Besides, his presence continued to have a kind of fascination for her.
Why, she could not tell, yet when he rose to take his leave, she felt
that everything would seem tame and commonplace after he had gone.

Mr. Castlemaine again pressed refreshments upon him; but again he
refused to take them. It is true that he refused with a great show of
courtesy, but he seemed determined to partake of nothing which the house
could offer.

"I am afraid you are thinking of my sad story," he said, turning to
Olive as he was on the point of saying good-night. "Of course you
English have different thoughts and customs from the Easterns; still,