t the hospital, and she had long foreseen
the coming struggle.

"Why do you shake your head?" he asked. "Do you not want me at the
little house?"

"The villa is yours, not his," she said. "He will be glad if you will
leave him there, for he will be the master. Then he will marry again,
and live there, and it will be hard to turn him out."

"What makes you think he wishes to marry again?"

"He would be married already, if the girl would have him," answered
Regina.

"How do you know?"

"You told me to watch, to find out. I have obeyed you. I know
everything."

Marcello was surprised, and did not quite understand. He only remembered
that he had asked her to ascertain whether Settimia had sent a note to
Folco at Saint Moritz. After a day or two she told him that she was
quite sure of it. That was all, and Regina had scarcely ever spoken of
Folco since then. Marcello reminded her of this, and asked her what she
had done.

"I can read," she said. "I can read writing, and that is very hard, you
know. I made Settimia teach me. I said with myself, if he should be away
and should write to me, what should I do? I could not let Settimia read
his letters, and I am too well dressed to go to a public letter-writer
in the street, as the peasants do. He would think me an ignorant person,
and the people in the street would laugh. That would not help me. I
should have to go to the priest, to my confessor."

"Your confessor? Do you go to confession?"

"Do you take me for a Turk?" Regina asked, laughing. "I go to confession
at Christmas and Easter. I tell the priest that I am very bad, and am
sorry, but that it is for you and that I cannot help it. Then he asks me
if I will promise to leave you and be good. And I say no, that I will
not promise that. And he tells me to go away and come back when I am
ready to promise, and that he will give me absolution then. It is always
the same. He shakes his head and frowns when he sees me coming, and I
smile. We know each other quite well now. I have told him that when you
are tired of me, then I will be good. Is not that enough? What can I do?
I should like to be good, of course, but I like still better to be with
you. So it is."

"You are better than the priest knows," said Marcello thoughtfully, "and
I am worse."

"It is not true. But if I had a letter from you, I would not take it to
the priest to read for me. He would be angry, and tear it up, and send
me away. I understood this a