n, when she
next looked up.

A little later they stood side by side, gazing at the calm dead face, in
a long silence. How long they stood, they never knew, for their hearts
were very full. The sun was going down and the evening light filled the
room.

"Did he tell you, before he died--about me?" asked Maria Consuelo in a
low voice.

"Yes. He told me everything."

Maria Consuelo went forward and bent over the face and kissed the white
forehead, and made the sign of the Cross upon it. Then she turned and
took Orsino's hand in hers.

"I could not help your hearing what I said, Orsino. He was dying, you
see. You know all, now."

Orsino's fingers pressed hers desperately. For a moment he could not
speak. Then the agonised words came with a great effort, harshly but
ringing from the heart.

"And I can give you nothing!"

He covered his face and turned away.

"Give me your friendship, dear--I never had your love," she said.

It was long before they talked together again.

This is what I know of young Orsino Saracinesca's life up to the present
time. Maria Consuelo, Countess Del Ferice, was right. She never had his
love as he had hers. Perhaps the power of loving so is not in him. He
is, after all, more like San Giacinto than any other member of the
family, cold, perhaps, and hard by nature. But these things which I have
described have made a man of him at an age when many men are but boys,
and he has learnt what many never learn at all--that there is more true
devotion to be found in the world than most people will acknowledge. He
may some day be heard of. He may some day fall under the great passion.
Or he may never love at all and may never distinguish himself any more
than his father has done. One or the other may happen, but not both, in
all probability. The very greatest passion is rarely compatible with the
very greatest success except in extraordinary good or bad natures. And
Orsino Saracinesca is not extraordinary in any way. His character has
been formed by the unusual circumstances in which he was placed when
very young, rather than by anything like the self-development which we
hear of in the lives of great men. From a somewhat foolish and
affectedly cynical youth he has grown into a decidedly hard and
cool-headed man. He is very much seen in society but talks little on the
whole. If, hereafter, there should be anything in his life worth
recording, another hand than mine may write it down for future r