not have been so well with me, for one. I am very
glad to be able to wash my hands of it. You shall have not only one but
two bottles of wine with supper, if you please."

"Well, friend Edouarts. I bring you the good news, but I am not the
author of it. No; I must confess, I would rather have had my plan
carried out. But what matter? One does one's best from time to time--the
hours go by--at the end comes sleep, and no one can torment you more."

They walked on for a time in silence. And now before them lay the
wonderful sight of Naples ablaze with a dusky yellow radiance in the
dark; and far away beyond the most distant golden points, high up in the
black deeps of the sky, the constant, motionless, crimson glow of
Vesuvius told them where the peaks of the mountain, themselves unseen
towered above the sea.

By-and-by they plunged into the great murmuring city.

"You are going back to England, Monsieur Edouarts. You will take Kirski
to Mr. Brand, he will be reinstated in his work; Englishmen do not
forget their promises. Then I have another little commission for you."

He went into one of the small jeweller's shops, and, after a great deal
of haggling--for his purse was not heavy, and he knew the ways of his
countrymen--he bought a necklace of pink coral. It was carefully wrapped
in wool and put into a box. Then they went outside again.

"You will give this little present, my good friend Edouarts--you will
take it, with my compliments, to my beautiful, noble child Natalie; and
you will tell her that it did not cost much, but it is only a
message--to show her that Calabressa still thinks of her, and loves, her
always."

CHAPTER XXXII.

FRIEND AND SWEETHEART.

Madame Potecki was a useful enough adviser in the small and ordinary
affairs of every-day life, but face to face with a great emergency she
became terrified and helpless.

"My dear, my dear," she kept repeating, in a flurried sort of way, "you
must not do anything rash--you must not do anything wild. Oh, my dear,
take care! it is so wicked for children to disobey their parents!"

"I am no longer a child, Madame Potecki; I am a woman: I know what seems
to me just and unjust; and I only wish to do right." She was now quite
calm. She had mastered that involuntary tremulousness of the lips. It
was the little Polish lady who was agitated.

"My dear Natalie, I will go to your father. I said I would go--even with
your message--though it is a frightful