ent to that castle in Switzerland. But I said
I wouldn't give any such messages as that. Only, if she is not engaged,
I'm sure I'm glad to know it."

But, as Winterbourne had said, it mattered very little. A week after
this, the poor girl died; it had been a terrible case of the fever.
Daisy's grave was in the little Protestant cemetery, in an angle of
the wall of imperial Rome, beneath the cypresses and the thick spring
flowers. Winterbourne stood there beside it, with a number of other
mourners, a number larger than the scandal excited by the young lady's
career would have led you to expect. Near him stood Giovanelli, who came
nearer still before Winterbourne turned away. Giovanelli was very pale:
on this occasion he had no flower in his buttonhole; he seemed to wish
to say something. At last he said, "She was the most beautiful young
lady I ever saw, and the most amiable"; and then he added in a moment,
"and she was the most innocent."

Winterbourne looked at him and presently repeated his words, "And the
most innocent?"

"The most innocent!"

Winterbourne felt sore and angry. "Why the devil," he asked, "did you
take her to that fatal place?"

Mr. Giovanelli's urbanity was apparently imperturbable. He looked on the
ground a moment, and then he said, "For myself I had no fear; and she
wanted to go."

"That was no reason!" Winterbourne declared.

The subtle Roman again dropped his eyes. "If she had lived, I should
have got nothing. She would never have married me, I am sure."

"She would never have married you?"

"For a moment I hoped so. But no. I am sure."

Winterbourne listened to him: he stood staring at the raw protuberance
among the April daisies. When he turned away again, Mr. Giovanelli, with
his light, slow step, had retired.

Winterbourne almost immediately left Rome; but the following summer he
again met his aunt, Mrs. Costello at Vevey. Mrs. Costello was fond of
Vevey. In the interval Winterbourne had often thought of Daisy Miller
and her mystifying manners. One day he spoke of her to his aunt--said it
was on his conscience that he had done her injustice.

"I am sure I don't know," said Mrs. Costello. "How did your injustice
affect her?"

"She sent me a message before her death which I didn't understand at the
time; but I have understood it since. She would have appreciated one's
esteem."

"Is that a modest way," asked Mrs. Costello, "of saying that she would
have reciprocated one's affec