lations had stunned her; she felt incapable of acting or
thinking. All she knew was that a feeling of utter desolation possessed
her.

She was glad her father was out of the house, for she had a great dread
of meeting any one just then. In a vague way she had a longing to
understand the meaning of what she had heard. For more than an hour she
sat in utter silence. Little by little the reality of Leicester's story
came to her. Leicester was not dead. He had come back to wreak his
revenge on her.

At first she was angry. That he whom she had driven away should come
back as a stranger in order to drag her into disgrace, hurt her pride.

But the anger did not long remain. She reflected that he had renounced
his plan of revenge. Nay, more, he had come to her almost humbly, and
told her that he had learnt to be ashamed of his unworthy designs.

Without knowing it she began to analyse her feelings. What was to become
of her? Ricordo was gone--there never had been a Ricordo, except in
name. And yet she had loved him. The night before, when she had promised
to be his wife, and felt his lips upon hers, she knew that her life had
gone out to his. Even although she could not understand it, she knew it
was so. In spite of the fear which had possessed her, her heart had
responded to his pleadings. Even then the thought of it was strange. If,
years before, any one had told her that she would have given her heart
to a man with Ricordo's professed antecedents, she would have laughed at
such a suggestion as impossible. And yet, in spite of herself, she had
loved him, she did love him. And yet there was no Ricordo; there never
had been.

Then, like a flash, the whole truth came to her. It was Leicester she
had loved all the time. She realised now why, even at their first
meeting, he had such an influence over her. It was not a stranger with
an Italian name, it was Leicester, the man who had won her years before,
and whom she had sent away in anger, but whom she had never been able to
forget. Her heart had thrilled its recognition of the man, even although
she thought him to be a stranger. It was Leicester all the time.
Everything was plain to her now; there never had been any Signor
Ricordo; at most he was only a name, a fancy. That was why, the night
before, it had seemed to her that it was Leicester who had kissed her.
It was not a new love at all. It was but the resurrection of an old
love, the one love of her life.

For a momen