Ragna was awakened by the maid knocking at her door. She sat up holding her throbbing head between her hands, trying to marshal in her mind the fragmentary memories of yesterday, that seemed like bits of a bad dream. They fell into their places, one by one,—the drive, the terrible evening at the veglione, her conversation with Angelescu, the return to her box, and the joyous welcome from her party, who were growing anxious for her—especially Astrid, consumed by remorse, for having deserted her in the crowd—

"And for that fool of a Lotten, who dances like a knitting-machine, anyhow, and let me get bumped and trampled on, and dragged to pieces in the crush!" Then the sleepy return home.

"Why don't you stop knocking, Rosa? I don't want to get up yet!" she called fretfully.

"I have a letter for you, Signorina, it is marked 'urgent.'"

Ragna rose wearily, and unlocked the door; Rosa brought in the breakfast tray and set it down, then fished an envelope out of her apron pocket, and having handed it to Ragna, left the room. She would willingly have lingered to chatter about the veglione, but Ragna's manner did not invite conversation.

Ragna relocked the door, and returned to bed to read her letter; it was from Angelescu, and ran as follows:

"My Dear Child,

"I shall be leaving Rome in a few hours. After what has happened. I cannot remain any longer as aide-de-camp to H. R. H. and I am returning home to resign my commission in the service, and to see that it takes effect immediately. After that, my plans are undecided.

"I meant what I said to you last evening, and I refuse to consider your answer as definite. I beg of you to take some time to think over the proposition. I shall wait patiently for your ultimate decision, which I hope may be in my favour. In any case, should you ever stand in need of a friend, remember that now and always, I shall be at your service. Unfortunately for myself, perhaps, I am not a man who changes, and ten years from now I shall still be the same towards you as I am to-day. A letter sent to the address in the lower left-hand corner will find me always.

"Believe me,

"Your devoted friend and servant,"

(here followed the signature and address.)

Ragna read the letter through twice, thoughtfully. Its intentional restraint she took for coldness. Angelescu, in his effort to suit his language to her manner of the night before, and to avoid antagonizing her by any untimely warmth of expression, had overreached himself for, with her, the inevitable reaction had set in and the formality of the letter froze the feelings in her that a greater tenderness might have called forth. She misconstrued the delicacy of his intention, taking it for the ceremonious chivalry of a man, who, while repenting of his impulsive and quixotic offer, feels that he cannot withdraw it, and is prepared to abide by it, regardless of inclination.

Going to her writing table, she answered at once.

"Dear Count Angelescu,

"I appreciate fully the kindness and generosity of your offer, but do not feel that I can accept it. I sincerely hope that you will not think of breaking off your career on my account, it would seem to me most unnecessary, as there is no real reason why you should take up the cudgels on my behalf—especially, since I desire you not to.

"Thanking you with all my heart for your kindness,

"I remain,

"Sincerely yours,

"Ragna Andersen."

She folded the sheet, put it in an envelope, which she addressed as directed in Angelescu's letter, gummed down the flap, and sealed it. She sat weighing the letter meditatively in her hand, a moment or two before she rang the bell to call Rosa. Did something tell her that she was throwing away her own chance of happiness, and wounding the one heart that could really love and understand her?

After the letter had gone, she sat on at the table, resting her cheek on the palm of her hand. It was a wet, gloomy morning, the cold light gave the shabby pension room a dreary look; on the floor lay her clothes as she had stepped out of them the evening before; the black domino lay over the back of a chair, and the mask swung rakishly by one of its elastics, from a knob of the dressing glass.

On the mantel-shelf stood a vase of half-withered flowers, whose dropping petals littered the hearth below. Ragna took a miserable delight in the untidiness of the room; it seemed of a piece with the confusion of her life, a fit setting for her misery of mind and body.

Rosa entered quietly, with an armful of wood and a pine cone, and kneeling before the fireplace, soon had a merry little blaze. Seeing that Ragna had not touched her breakfast, she poured out a cup of coffee, and taking it over to the girl, obliged her to drink it.

"Go back to bed, Signorina, you are still tired from the veglione."

Ragna shook her head, but Rosa took her by the arm, and led her gently over, putting her to bed as though she were a child. This done, she proceeded to straighten up the room, folding the clothes neatly and laying them in the cupboard.

"Ecco!" she said, "that is better! You shall not get up for luncheon, Signorina, I will bring you a tray here."

"You are a good soul, Rosa," said Ragna, touched by the maid's kindly attentions.

Rosa smiled cheerfully, and went out, closing the door gently behind her.

The fire had given Ragna an idea; she crept out of bed and took from her writing case Angelescu's sketch of Prince Mirko, and the portraits of him she had cut from illustrated journals. She looked at them in turn, the handsome, smiling, indifferent face looked out from the slips of paper, as it always had, but to her it was changed. She saw now, as she had not before, the selfish hardness of the sensual mouth, the nonchalant boldness of the almond-shaped eyes, the impress of self-indulgence over the whole face. This, then, was her dream-hero, this! Have all idols clay feet, she wondered? It was more than love she had lost, more than innocence,—it was the ideal of all her girlhood, all her maiden hopes and dreams. Tears filled her eyes; suddenly she lifted the pictures to her lips, and kissed them passionately, then dashing the tears away, she laid them, one by one on the fire, watched them flame up and shrivel to fluttering black rags,—and crept back to bed.

"It is over," she thought, "all over. I will put the past behind me, as though nothing had been; it is destroyed, as the flames destroyed the pictures. It is idiotic to pretend that one little hour of weakness can ruin one's whole life! I shall put it behind me, I shall forget it all, I shall wipe it from my memory. It shall not influence my life—except that I shall be wiser in the future."

So said Ragna; she had yet to realize that the future is made up of the past—of a thousand pasts, that one can no more wipe a past event out of one's life, than one can discard all one's past personality, the growth of years and of circumstance, and put on a new one. Every act has it consequence, and the complex interweaving of these consequences build up what men call fate,—also we are bound as much by the consequences of the acts of others, as by those of our own,—we are bound by the acts of countless generations past. Every day that passes, we dislodge stones that shall rebound, we know not where, or when, in the years to come, stones that shall wound men and women we will never know, who will be unconscious of our existence.