e out.

"Still here!" exclaimed the artist.

"Eh! You did not tell me to go," answered the lad.

Marzio locked the heavy outer door and crossed over to his house, while
the boy went whistling down the street in the dusk. Slowly the artist
mounted the stairs, pondering, as he went, on the many emotions of the
day, and at last repeating his conclusion, that he was glad that he had
not killed Paolo.

By a change of feeling which he did not wholly realise, he felt for the
first time in many years that he would be glad to see his brother alive
and well. He had that day so often fancied him dead, lying on the floor
of the workshop, or buried in a dark corner of the cellar, that the idea
of meeting him, calm and well as ever, had something refreshing in it.
It was like the waking from a hideous dream of evil to find that the
harm is still undone, to experience that sense of unutterable relief
which every one knows when the dawn suddenly touches the outlines of
familiar objects in the room, and dispels in an instant the visions of
the night.

Paolo might not come that evening, but at least Maria Luisa and Lucia
would speak of him, and it would be a comfort to hear his name spoken
aloud. Marzio's step quickened with the thought, and in another moment
he was at the door. To his surprise it was opened before he could ring,
and old Assunta came forward with her wrinkled fingers raised to her
lips.

"Hist! hist!" she whispered. "It goes a little better--or at least--"

"What? Who?" asked Marzio, instinctively whispering also.

"Eh! You have not heard? Don Paolo--they have killed him!"

"Paolo!" exclaimed Marzio, staggering and leaning against the door-post.

"He is not dead--not dead yet at least," went on the old woman in low,
excited tones. "He was in the church with Tista--a ladder--"

Marzio did not stop to hear more, but pushed past Assunta with his
burden under his arm, and entered the passage. The door at the end was
open, and he saw his wife standing in the bright light in the
sitting-room, anxiously looking towards him as though she had heard his
coming.

"For God's sake, Gigia," he said, addressing her by her old pet name,
"tell me quickly what has happened!"

The Signora Pandolfi explained as well as she could, frequently giving
way to her grief in passionate sobs. She was incoherent, but the facts
were so simple that Marzio understood them. He was standing by the
table, his hand resting upon the wooden ca