an beings, as
pygmies. Now she felt that she came of a race of giants, whose powers
were illimitable. If only she could be under that palm-tree for a moment
beside Emile, she would be able to test the power she knew was within
her, the glorious power that the sun lacked, to shed light and heat
through a human soul. With an instinctive gesture she stretched out her
hand as if to give Artois the touch he longed for. It encountered only
the air and dropped to her side. She got up with a sigh.

"Poor old Emile!" she said to herself. "If only I could do something for
him!"

The thought of Maurice sleeping calmly close to her made her long to say
"Thank you" for her great happiness by performing some action of
usefulness, some action that would help another--Emile for choice--to
happiness, or, at least, to calm.

This longing was for a moment so keen in her that it was almost like an
unconscious petition, like an unuttered prayer in the heart, "Give me an
opportunity to show my gratitude."

She stood by the wall for a moment, looking over into the ravine and at
the mountain flank opposite. Etna was startlingly clear to-day. She
fancied that if a fly were to settle upon the snow on its summit she
would be able to see it. The sea was like a mirror in which lay the
reflection of the unclouded sky. It was not far to Africa. She watched a
bird pass towards the sea. Perhaps it was flying to Kairouan, and would
settle at last on one of the white cupolas of the great mosque there, the
Mosque of Djama Kebir.

What could she do for Emile? She could at least write to him. She could
renew her invitation to him to come to Sicily.

"Lucrezia!" she called, softly, lest she might waken Maurice.

"Signora?" said Lucrezia, appearing round the corner of the cottage.

"Please bring me out a pen and ink and writing-paper, will you?"

"Si, signora."

Lucrezia was standing beside Hermione. Now she turned to go into the
house. As she did so she said:

"Ecco, Antonino from the post-office!"

"Where?" asked Hermione.

Lucrezia pointed to a little figure that was moving quickly along the
mountain-path towards the cottage.

"There, signora. But why should he come? It is not the hour for the post
yet."

"No. Perhaps it is a telegram. Yes, it must be a telegram."

She glanced at the letter in her hand.

"It's a telegram from Africa," she said, as if she knew.

And at that moment she felt that she did know.

Lucrezia regarded her w