nant blood by their warmth, and thawing
the apathetic chill whose icy hand had lain so heavy upon him. A sob
escaped him. His eager, trembling fingers pushed back the clustering
hair from her temples. He peered wonderingly into her face. It must be a
vision; it would surely fade away, and leave him once more in the outer
darkness. Five-and-twenty years had passed! She had been like this then!
A sense of bewilderment crept in upon him.

"Margharita!" he exclaimed feebly. "I do not understand! You are
Margharita; you have her hair, her eyes, her mouth! And yet, of course,
it cannot be. Ah, no! it cannot be!"

"You are thinking of my mother," she cried softly. "She loved you so
much. I am like her, am I not?"

"Married! Margharita married! Ah, of course! I had forgotten. And you
are her child. My sister's child. Ah, five-and-twenty years is a long
time."

"It is a shameful, cruel time," she cried passionately. "My mother used
to tell me of it, when I was a little girl, and her voice would shake
with anger and pity. Francesca, too, would talk to me about you. I
prayed for you every evening when I was little, that they might soon set
you free again. Oh, it was cruel!"

She threw her arms around his neck, and he rested his head upon her
shoulder. It was like an elixir of life for him.

"And your mother, Margharita?" he asked fearfully.

"She is dead," was the low reply.

"Ah! Margharita dead! She was so like you, child. Dead! Five-and-twenty
years is a weary while. Dead!"

He sighed, and his tearless eyes looked thoughtfully into the fire.
Memories of other days were rising up and passing before him in swift
procession. He saw himself and her, orphan brother and sister, wandering
hand in hand over their beautiful island home, with the sea wind blowing
in their faces, and the spirit of the mountains which towered around
them entering into their hearts. Dear to them had been that home, dear
that close and precious companionship. They had talked of the life which
lay before them--rose-colored and joyous, pregnant with glorious
opportunities and possibilities. For their island and the larger
continent close at hand were convulsed at that time in certain patriotic
efforts, the history of which has been written into the history of
Europe, and no one desired more ardently to bear a hand in the struggle
than young Leonardo di Marioni. Large hearted, romantic, and with an
imagination easily fired, he was from the first a dr