ed with him rose thick
and fast, he himself receded into the dim distance.

"I am glad I was mistaken," went on Ricordo; "and may I also accept that
as your consent to my approaching your father, with a view to my
becoming your neighbour?"

"I am sure, if you decide to live here, I hope you will be very happy,"
said Olive.

"Thank you; you make my sun shine brightly," was the response. "Whether
I shall live here much, I cannot tell, for the East always claims the
man upon whom it has cast its spell. And it has cast its spell upon me.
Yes, some time I must claim your consent to tell you about my life
there. I may, may I not?"

Before she realised what she was doing, she had given her consent. The
man's presence suggested mysteries which she desired to know.

They had now turned down the hill, and were walking to Vale Linden. She
was almost sorry that their walk would so soon come to an end, and she
wished that he would tell her something of the past as they walked. But
as they neared the village Signor Ricordo became moody and silent, so
silent that their walk became almost painful. When they came to the park
gates, however, he spoke again.

"It is kind of you to have pity on a lonely man," he said, "ay, and one
who is a stranger, grown old before his time."

"Old, signore?" she said, with a laugh that was almost forced.

"Yes, old, signorina. How old should you think?"

She lifted her eyes to his face, and as she looked she felt a shiver
pass through her.

"I should not like to hazard a guess," she said.

"No," he replied, "I suppose not; and yet, would you believe it, I am
but little older than you. As I told you when first I saw you, I have
been in hell; down in its very depths. And it ages a man--yes, it ages
him, it gives him not years, but it gives him wisdom. Good-day,
signorina."

Olive felt strangely depressed as he parted from her, and she found
herself wondering at many things he said. Indeed, he was in her thoughts
during the rest of the day. She was strangely interested in him, and yet
she had a kind of fear of him. He was different from the rest of her
world, different from her father, different from Herbert Briarfield,
different from any of the guests who had come to the house. In many ways
he reminded her of Leicester, and yet from that day Leicester became
more and more a memory to her.

A few days later she heard that Signor Ricordo had taken rooms at Linden
Manor Farm, a rather fine ol