ing inside this letter, and wrote Tito's name outside.
The next letter was to Bernardo del Nero:--

"Dearest Godfather,--If I could have been any good to your life by
staying I would not have gone away to a distance. But now I am gone.
Do not ask the reason; and if you love my father, try to prevent any one
from seeking me. I could not bear my life at Florence. I cannot bear
to tell any one why. Help to cover my lot in silence. I have asked
that my bridal chest should be sent to you: when you open it, you will
know the reason. Please to give all the things that were my mother's to
my cousin Brigida, and ask her to forgive me for not saying any words of
parting to her.

"Farewell, my second father. The best thing I have in life is still to
remember your goodness and be grateful to you.

"Romola."

Romola put the letters, along with the crucifix, within the bosom of her
mantle, and then felt that everything was done. She was ready now to
depart.

No one was stirring in the house, and she went almost as quietly as a
grey phantom down the stairs and into the silent street. Her heart was
palpitating violently, yet she enjoyed the sense of her firm tread on
the broad flags--of the swift movement, which was like a chained-up
resolution set free at last. The anxiety to carry out her act, and the
dread of any obstacle, averted sorrow; and as she reached the Ponte
Rubaconte, she felt less that Santa Croce was in her sight than that the
yellow streak of morning which parted the grey was getting broader and
broader, and that, unless she hastened her steps, she should have to
encounter faces.

Her simplest road was to go right on to the Borgo Pinti, and then along
by the walls to the _Porta_, San Gallo, from which she must leave the
city, and this road carried her by the Piazza di Santa Croco. But she
walked as steadily and rapidly as ever through the piazza, not trusting
herself to look towards the church. The thought that any eyes might be
turned on her with a look of curiosity and recognition, and that
indifferent minds might be set speculating on her private sorrows, made
Romola shrink physically as from the imagination of torture. She felt
degraded even by that act of her husband from which she was helplessly
suffering. But there was no sign that any eyes looked forth from
windows to notice this tall grey sister, with the firm step, and proud
attitude of the cowled head. Her road lay aloof from the stir of