ot a trace remains to tell what her self-imposed
penance has cost her.

Again she is the proud marchesa, the mistress of the feudal palace and
all its glorious memories.--Yes; and she casts her eyes round where
she stands, back again in the retiring-room. Yes--all is yet her own.
True, she is impoverished--worse, she is laden with debt, harassed by
creditors. The lands that are left are heavily mortgaged; the money
received from Count Nobili, as the price of the palace, already spent
in law. The hoard she has just counted--her savings--destined to dower
her niece Enrica, in whose marriage lies the sole remaining hope of
the preservation of the name (and that depending on the will of a
husband, who may, or may not, add the name of Guinigi to his own) is
most slender. She has been able to add nothing to it during these last
years--not a farthing. But there is one consolation. While she lives,
all is safe from spoliation. While she lives, no creditor lives bold
enough to pass that threshold. While she lives--and then?

Further she forbids her thoughts to wander. She will not admit, even
to herself, that there is danger--that even, during her own life, she
may be forced to sell what is dearer to her than life--the palace and
the heirlooms!

Meanwhile the consciousness of wealth is pleasant to her. She opens
the cupboards in the wall, and handles the precious vessels of
Venetian glass, the silver plates and golden flagons, the jeweled
cups; she examines the ancient bronzes and ivory carvings; unlocks the
caskets and the inlaid cabinets, and turns over the gold guipure lace,
the rich mediaeval embroideries, the christening-robes--these she
flings quickly by--and the silver ornaments. She uncloses the carved
coffers, and passes through her long fingers the wedding garments of
brides turned to dust centuries ago--the silver veils, bridal crowns,
and quaintly-cut robes of taffetas and brocade, once white, now turned
to dingy yellow. She assures herself that all is in its place.

As she moves to and fro she catches sight of herself reflected in one
of the many mirrors encased in what were once gorgeous frames hanging
on the wall. She stops and fixes her keen black eyes upon her own worn
face. "I am not old," she says aloud, "only fifty-five this year. I
may live many years yet. Much may happen before I die! Cesare Trenta
says I am ruined"--as she speaks, she turns her face toward the
streaks of light that penetrate the shutte