revious night, neither had she.

"Yes--no," she answered--"that is, I have never met any one that I cared
for--enough to marry."

"Then you love this man--Leicester--still?"

"No."

"He is nothing to you now?"

"No, I do not think so."

"You have never felt that you treated him harshly, unfairly; that you
did not give him a chance of proving to you that his love was real?"

"What could I do?" she asked. "No woman with self-respect could consent
to be treated in such a way. He had deceived me once, how could I trust
him again?"

"How indeed?"

She looked at him quickly. She could not understand the tone of his
voice, and again a great fear possessed her. He seemed to have mastered
her will, rather than her heart. She stood almost in awe of this man
whose life was still a mystery to her, but who had, in a way she could
not understand, made her feel that he was all the world to her. For he
had done this, and yet in her heart of hearts she did not feel that she
loved him.

"Did it ever strike you," he went on, "that this man--Leicester, I think
you call him--did not commit suicide?"

"But he did!"

"How do you know?"

"The papers, the coroner's inquest, the--that is, there could be no
doubt. Letters addressed to him were found on his dead body."

"I was only considering it from the standpoint of one who is terribly
interested in all this, more interested than even you can think. For
your story has a vital meaning to me, signorina; you can imagine that.
How can it be otherwise, when your answer to my plea means so much? For
let me tell you this, although your refusal would mean more to me than
anything you can dream of, I would not marry a woman half of whose heart
was buried in the grave of another man. May I ask you another question,
signorina?"

She nodded her head, wondering and fearing, she knew not why, what it
would be.

"Suppose this man were not dead, supposing he is still alive, and were
to come back, repentant perhaps, and reformed--would you marry him now?"

"No, no, never." She uttered the words eagerly.

"He is nothing to you now?"

"His memory is a black shadow on my life."

"But only a shadow?"

"That is all."

"In a sense, you have forgotten him, then?"

"Yes, he has--lately become--as--as nothing to me."

"Since how long?"

She did not answer.

"Signorina," and he spoke very gently, "is it since--since that day I
spoke to you first up on the hills yonder?"

She did not