RED LEAVES."

One morning in spring Aspatria stood in a balcony overlooking the
principal thoroughfare of Rome,--the Rome of papal government,
mythical, mystical, mediaeval in its character. A procession of friars
had just passed; a handsome boy was crying violets; some musical
puppets were performing in the shadow of the opposite palace; a
party of brigands were going to the Angelo prison; the spirit of Caesar
was still abroad in the black-browed men and women, lounging and
laughing in their gaudy, picturesque costumes; and the spirit of
ecclesiasticism lifted itself above every earthly object, and
touched proudly the bells of a thousand churches. Aspatria was
weary of all.

She had that morning an imperative nostalgia. She could see nothing
but the mountains of Cumberland, and the white sheep wandering about
their green sides. Through the church-bells she heard the sheep-bells.
Above the boy crying violets she heard the boy whistling in the
fresh-ploughed furrow. As for the violets, she knew how the wild ones
were blowing in Ambar wood, and how in the garden the daffodil-beds
were aglow, and the sweet thyme humbling itself at their feet, because
each bore a chalice. Oh for a breath from the mountains and the sea!
The hot Roman streets, with their ever-changing human elements of
sorrow and mirth, sin and prayer, riches and poverty, made her sad
and weary.

Sarah came toward her with a letter in her hand. "Ria," she said,
"this is from Lady Redware. Your husband will be in England very
shortly."

It was the first time Sarah had ever called Ulfar Aspatria's husband.
In conversation the two women had always spoken of him as "Ulfar." The
change was significant. It implied that Sarah thought the time had
come for Aspatria to act decisively.

"I shall be delighted to go back to England. We have been twenty
months away, Sarah. I was just feeling as if it were twenty years."

Sarah looked critically at the woman who was going to cast her last
die for love. She was so entirely different from the girl who had
first won that love, how was it possible for her to recapture the
same sweet, faithless emotion? She had a swift memory of the slim
girl in the plain black frock whom she had seen sitting under the
whin-bushes. And then she glanced at Aspatria standing under the
blue-and-red awning of the Roman palace. She was now twenty-six
years old, and in the very glory of her womanhood, tall, superbly
formed, graceful, calm,