The Signora Ferrati made a pleasant travelling companion, and her two little girls were unusually quiet and well-behaved, for Italian children, who are generally allowed far more of their elders' society and privileges, especially as regards eating and sitting up until late hours, than is at all good for them.

Dr. Ferrati was unable to accompany his family, but had promised to come to Venice in a fortnight's time. The journey up was uneventful, and the two parties separated at the railway station, the Signora taking a vaporetto directly to the Lido, while Fru Bjork and the girls, went to a small, but comfortable, hotel on the Grand Canal.

That evening Astrid and Ragna hung over the balcony of the latter's room, gazing in ecstasy at the fairyland spread before their eyes. Nearly opposite, rose the white dome of S. Maria della Salute, gleaming shadowy pale against a star-powdered sky; the dark water below, fretted with silver ripples, flowed silently by, and over its surface sped the slim dark shapes of gondolas, the gondolier swaying to the rhythm of his oar, each gondola bearing its little lamp behind the tall steel prow. Down the canal, from the Rialto, came the barche full of musicians, gay with Japanese lanterns, and the high transparent emblem "S. Mareo" or the "Sirena," and surrounded by a growing flotilla of gondolas. The still air throbbed with the haunting strains of voices, mandolins and guitars. A strong, clear tenor voice, rose above the others, the notes vibrating with passion, as they rose and fell.

Astrid squeezed Ragna's hand.

"Oh, isn't it just too heavenly for words!" she murmured.

The charm of it all, in its setting of soft, luminous Italian night, penetrated both the girls, but in different ways. To Astrid, it was a delightfully romantic impression, to be recalled with pleasure; to Ragna, the poignancy of the beauty was tinged with bitterness, and the very loveliness of it was as a two-edged sword, recalling other Italian nights and their associations. Try as she would, she could not banish the past, nor had custom yet made her callous to the memory of what had happened.

The girls stood on the balcony, until the music stopped, and the boats drifted away, then they kissed one another good-night, and Astrid went to her own room.

Ragna, although tired out by the long day's journey, could not sleep; instead, she lay watching through her mosquito netting the white patch of light on the floor, and the shadow of the balcony balustrade with its fretted pattern. She was thinking of Valentini. He had been at the station that morning to see her off, and his farewell had been so loverlike as to bring a look of surprised inquiry to Fru Bjork's face. The flowers he had given her were in a vase on the balcony, as their strong perfume made it impossible to keep them in the room. She turned uneasily as she thought of his pressure of her hand, of the intensity of his dark burning eyes on hers, of the words he had said to her when, for an instant, he had managed to draw her aside from the others of the party.

"Signorina, this is not good-bye, but au revoir. You will come back, I know it, I feel it, and when you come back, it will be to me. Remember," he added with solemnity, "if ever you are in trouble, if ever you need a friend, I am here!"

At the time, his manner had struck her as curious, and even more so now, as she thought it over.

"If ever I should be in trouble—" she murmured, "but, why should he think of my being in trouble? Surely, my trouble is over and done with! Can he know, can he suspect?—But no, that is quite impossible. I wonder what he supposes and what he means? Go back to Florence to him? No, I am not going back."

She wondered if his words might have the virtue of a prophecy, then laughed at herself. Presently, she turned her hot pillow and threw back the sheet, for the night was close.

The change of air gave fresh energy to the whole party except Ragna, who continued pale and languid. Fru Bjork worried over it, and longed for the coming of Dr. Ferrati whose advice she intended to ask, whether Ragna wished it or no. As the Doctor had recommended sea-bathing for Astrid, the three ladies made daily trips to the Lido, and the girls thoroughly enjoyed their dips in the warm Adriatic. Ragna had always been a strong swimmer, but here, to her surprise, found that she tired almost at once, but set it down to the heat. After the long delicious bath was over the girls wrapped themselves in bath-robes, and lay on the sands to bake, their heads shielded from the sun by broad-brimmed straw hats. The strong soft heat and the salt air made them sleepy, the sands seemed to vibrate in the sunshine, a delightful weariness weighted their limbs, a drowsy consciousness of complete physical well-being filled them. It was to Ragna the happiest moment of the day.

The atmosphere alone of Venice gave her a feeling of rest and peace; the silent gliding of gondolas through the canals, the long drawn-out sonorous cries of the gondoliers, the soft wash of the water against the richly tinted walls, all lulled her senses. She realized that afternoon is the time to see Venice, the strong light of morning throws into intolerable relief the decay of the city; the St. Martin's Summer of the glorious Republic requires the mellow haze of the hours before sunset, as a fading beauty is best seen by candle light, and often in the afternoon, she would slip away to some old church, and in solitary musing to steep herself in the wonderful atmosphere of golden autumn. Most often of all, she went to S. Maria Formosa, and would sit for hours in contemplation of Palma Vecchio's Santa Barbara. She loved the strong, voluptuous, calm woman, beautiful with the beauty of the corn-harvest, standing clear-eyed and self-possessed in her rich russet draperies. All the richness and fulness of the earth seemed symbolized in this glorious creature, this Woman of women. "Ceres," the girl called her, for in her appearance, there is nothing of the saintly, nothing of the ascetic, rather the promise of abundant voluptuous joy—not pleasure, but something deeper, graver, more fundamental, the earnest of a bounteous harvest of life.

She sought the mellow golden glow of S. Mereo, at that hour, when the level rays of the declining sun fill the air with a mystic radiance, seemingly the golden impalpable dust of centuries of prayer. The softened splendour filled her soul, and warmed it, as generous wine warms the veins, and the heavy odour of the incense drugged her restless memory to temporary oblivion. She followed from afar, the offices, and once was tempted to make the sacred sign with the holy water at the door, as she left. She dipped her fingers in the stoup, then smiled and wiped them on her handkerchief, ashamed of the impulse; did not her reason tell her that all these observances were mere foolishness? Still she could not deny the craving of her heart for some sort of mystic communion with the souls of the simple worshippers about her. She loved to watch the rays mount until they touched, with a fleeting radiance, the gold mosaics of the domes, then disappeared, carrying the glory with them. But afterwards, in the sudden darkness, the star-like tapers about the high altar gained a mystic significance, and the little floating lights in glasses, like glow-worms in the dusk, before the smaller shrines, seemed tiny beacons set for the wandering soul, or were they merely will-o'-the-wisps, luring one to a sense of false security? The spirit of it all breathed consolation and peace, but she saw it as through a glass; she longed to enter the sanctuary, but felt herself barred out by impalpable barriers. The haven seemed to lie before her eyes, but the path was hidden. "There was the door to which I found no key," she quoted to herself.

One afternoon, as she sat there in a side chapel, a girl entered, and disregarding the kneeling benches, threw herself against the altar itself, clutching the edge of the Sacred Table with straining clasped hands, her head bowed between her arms, her long, dark shawl dragging down the steps behind her, like a black trail of despair. The faint light from the tapers shone on the girl's auburn hair, following the burnished waves and tendrils. Her slender shoulders were heaving with sobs.

Ragna watched her awhile, then rose from her chair and put her hand softly on the girl's shoulder.

"What is it?" she asked. "Let me help you. Tell me what your trouble is."

The girl raised her head, and her streaming dark eyes met Ragna's. Seeing the sympathy in the fair face bent over her, she rose and let herself be led away to a corner near the entrance where there were some chairs.

"What is the matter?" asked Ragna.

"Oh, Signorina, it is very great," sobbed the girl, "but it is nothing a young lady like you could understand."

"What is it? Tell me," said Ragna gently.

"Oh, Signorina, I can't! I should be ashamed, you would despise me. What can a young lady like you know of—"

"Come, tell me, I shall not despise you," said Ragna; she was conscious already of an odd sense of fellowship. The girl raised her head, and looked at her steadily, as though testing the sincerity of the words.

"Signorina, my lover, Zuan, he is—he is going away, to America—he no longer wishes to marry me, and—" she drew aside the shawl, showing the altered lines of her figure.

"Oh!" said Ragna pitifully.

"And Signorina, my father turns me out of his house, he says I have brought disgrace on him, that no one will marry me now. I have nowhere to go. But that is nothing. I can work. It is Zuan—he doesn't love me any more, he is tired of me—" her voice trailed off into a wail. Ragna stroked her hand.

"Signorina, why should he cease to love me when I love him as much as ever? It must be another woman who has taken him from me! If I find her, I will kill her, I swear it! I will kill him too, and then I will kill myself!"

"But your child?" said Ragna, "have you thought of it?"

"The creatura? Poor little lamb to be wronged by its father before it is born! See you, Signorina," she turned defiantly, "it is his child, and he shall recognize it or die! No other woman shall have him!" Her eyes flashed.

Ragna tried another tack.

"If you are patient, and wait, he may come back to you; what would you gain by killing him? They will send you to prison, and your child will be born in disgrace."

"Perhaps you are right, Signorina," returned the girl doubtfully. "But how can I wait? Where can I go? My father has turned me out of his house, and no one will give me work now. No, it is better that I make an end of it."

She rose, but Ragna caught her hand, and pulled her down.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Carolina, Signorina, Carolina Manin di Guiseppe."

"Listen to me, Carolina, I will do something for you, I will see that you get work, but you must promise me to do nothing foolish. I can help you as long as you are only unfortunate, but I can't help a murderess."

"A murderess, Signorina?" The girl's eyes dilated.

"A murderess, yes, that is what you would be if you killed your lover. Would you like people to say that your child's mother was a murderess?"

"Madonna santissima, no!"

"Well, then, you will promise me?"

"I will swear it by the Madonna, Signorina."

"Take this money then," she emptied the contents of her purse into the girl's hand, "it will keep you for some days, until I can find something for you to do." She scribbled her name and address on a leaf torn from her note book. "Here, this is my address—you can come to see me—let me see, this is Monday—come to see me Sunday. You know how to find the Hotel Roma?"

"Oh, Signorina, you are an Angel of God, whom the blessed Madonna has sent me in my need!" She seized Ragna's hands, and covered them with kisses. "God will reward you, Signorina!"

"No, I am not an angel, Carolina, indeed I am very far from being one,"—she smiled sadly. "Come to see me next Sunday then, and we will see what can be done."

Interrupting the girl's protestations of gratitude and devotion, she freed herself, and walked quickly away, wondering what she should do to carry out her impulsive promise.

"I suppose I am a foolish idiot," she said to herself, "but I simply could not help it. Poor thing—I wonder what I can do for her?" Instinctively, her thoughts turned to Dr. Ferrati, he would be sure to find some way of arranging the matter. She said nothing to Fru Bjork or Astrid, they would only be shocked, and blame her for her impulsiveness. Fru Bjork was kind-hearted, but narrow-minded, and in common with many "good" women, would have shunned Carolina and her like, as she would the plague.

Dr. Ferrati arrived a week later than the day he had set. He had travelled by a night train, and chance had it, that he took the same vaporette that carried Fru Bjork and the girls to the Lido. When they got on at the Piazzetta, they hailed him with joy, and bade him bring his campstool to the bow, where they usually sat. When they were all comfortably settled, he put on his pince-nez, and looked at the girls in turn, noting with satisfaction Astrid's delicate bronze colour, so becoming to her fair curls and greenish eyes, but he started at Ragna's pallor, and drawn features. They were speaking of the Lido, and Ragna said:

"The bathing is delightful, especially when there is a little surf, I love to swim through it, to feel the waves buffet me about. But I get tired so soon now."

"But surely, Signorina, you are not bathing?"

"Why not?" asked Ragna, astonished, and the others echoed her.

"It is most unwise for you just now," said Ferrati, adjusting his pince-nez to hide his dismay and embarrassment. "You are anÆmic, you are not strong enough—it is most unwise."

"Yes," agreed Fru Bjork, "I have told her so, but she won't listen to me. She really is not at all well. I wish you would advise her, Doctor, indeed I do. The child worries me, what with her pale looks, and no appetite, and headaches and fainting fits."

Ragna anxiously met the Doctor's scrutinizing gaze.

"I wish you would prescribe for me; Fru Bjork is right. I am really not myself," she said simply.

Ferrati skilfully changed the subject and they chatted on gaily enough, until the Lido was reached. The little tram took them across the island, and while the others went to the dressing-rooms to change for the bath, the Doctor and Ragna walked out on to the terrace fronting the sea. They found two chairs, a little apart from the groups of smiling, chattering people, and when they had seated themselves, Ragna opened the conversation.

"Tell me the truth, Doctor, why should I not bathe?"

Ferrati met her question with a searching glance; was she in good faith, or feigning?

"Do you not know, then, Signorina, what is the matter with you?"

"You say I am anÆmic, I have headaches, and dizzy spells—" a horrible doubt suddenly thrust itself upwards in her mind. "For God's sake, Doctor, tell me what it is?"

"Surely you must have an idea—" He hesitated, then in answer to the appeal for frankness in her eyes, he continued in a lower tone. "Signorina, you are enceinte. Is it possible that you have not guessed it?"

Ragna paled, and her head fell back against the wooden support of the awning. Ferrati hastily summoned a waiter, and bade him bring a glass of cognac, which he made the girl take. The colour slowly crept back to her lips and cheeks; she made one or two efforts to speak, but was only able to swallow convulsively; finally in a husky voice she asked:

"How long have you known, suspected—this?"

"For about two months now—suspected, I say—but when I saw you on the boat, I was sure. Of course I may be mistaken, an examination would be necessary to be quite certain—there are tumours—"

"Will you examine me then—to-day? I must know, I must be sure—Oh, my God, I never thought of this!"

He gazed at her curiously, half cynically, yet impressed by her sincerity of manner.

"But surely, you must have known? You are young, Signorina, but you are not a child."

Her eyes fell before his.

"I did not know—I never thought of this!" she repeated dully.

His doubting expression faded before the despairing misery of her pale face.

"No," he thought, "she did not know or she could not look like this."

The girl's attitude was not one of discovered shame, but that of a person felled by a sudden blow. She looked dazed, stricken. People in bright summer dress were laughing, and joking all about; some were drinking Vermouth. From the sands below came the voices of happy children, and bathers in gay costumes made merry in the sparkling blue water.

"You are sure, quite sure?" Ragna asked suddenly, in a low, terrible voice.

"I told you that there can be no absolute certainty without an examination. Do not distress yourself so, my child," he added, touched to the heart by her misery, "after all, it may be a false alarm!"

The words seemed to give Ragna strength; though still deadly pale, she rose from her chair, saying:

"Come with me now, then; let us have it over at once. Come!"

"But, Signorina," he remonstrated, "your people, what will they think?"

"I can leave a message for Fru Bjork; I shall say I felt ill, and that you took me home. See! there comes your wife—tell her and she will see the others!"

She was already moving towards the Signora, who was crossing the terrace with her little girls, all three greeting Ferrati with smiles of welcome. The children ran to him, and throwing their arms about him, shrieked with joy.

"Babbo has come! Babbo has come!"

Ferrati embraced them, and put them down; he kissed his wife who was holding Ragna's hand, and said to her,

"Virginia cara, the Signorina has a bad headache, and feels faint, so I am taking her home. Tell the others not to be alarmed; it is only that I think the glare here is too much for her, and she ought not to go all the way home alone."

"You are pale, dear," said the Signora to Ragna. "Will you not come to my room, and lie down? You will be quite cool and quiet there."

"Thank you," said Ragna, "you are very kind, but I think I will go home—I should like to go quite to bed."

"Yes," said Ferrati, "I think you had better go home."

"Enrico is right," said the Signora, "go, cara, I will explain to the others when they come."

Ragna kissed the Signora, and moved off; the bright light dazzled her, she stumbled once or twice, and would have fallen, had not the Doctor been at her elbow. He steered her to the little tram, and at the landing found her a shady place on the vaporetto. Thinking she would be more comfortable by herself, he moved a little distance away, and lit a cigar, being careful, however, to remain within call.

To the end of her life, Ragna never forgot that trip. The little steamer rushed along through the greenish-yellow water, following an endless winding channel marked by groups of piles. The very swish of the bows through the water, seemed carrying her inexorably onward to some untoward fate. She shrank from the imminent certainty, yet longed to know, to be sure. Nothing she thought, could be worse than this horrible state of semi-suspense. A fictitious suspense it was though, for her inner consciousness was aware that Dr. Ferrati had seen the truth; still as long as there was a possibility of doubt, she felt that she must cling to it. Other boats passed, gay with people in summer dress, there were barche too, and gondolas with their bright summer awnings. She saw them apathetically, but between them and her, there rose distinct in her mental vision, the slender black-draped figure of Carolina, thrown in despair against the little side-altar. How she had pitied that girl—and now, here she was in like case! A bitter smile wreathed her lips.

"And I thought to forget, to put it out of my life!" she murmured.

The boat was a "diretto" and took them to the Piazzetta without intermediate stops, and there the Doctor put Ragna into a gondola for the remaining distance. The vibrating noonday heat beat down on her through the inadequate awning, she lay back dazed, but half conscious, until the hotel was reached. At last they were in the girl's cool, shaded room; the Doctor made his examination, and withdrew to the balcony, while Ragna dressed herself again; as soon as she was ready, she called him, and turning, he found her standing in the middle of the room.

"Well?" she asked.

"I am sorry, Signorina, but there is no possible doubt."

She sat down heavily; against her inner knowledge, she had been hoping against hope. The red and yellow striped awning over the balcony cast a bright glow on the floor, through the parted Venetian blinds; a bowl of late roses stood on the table, filling the air with their musky perfume, and the heavy droning of flies against the ceiling emphasized the noon silence. The girl sat like a graven image, staring straight before her with terrible dry eyes, her nerveless hands hung by her side.

Ferrati drew up a chair, and took one of the limp hands in his own.

"Will you not tell me all about it, my child? Remember a doctor is a sort of lay confessor. Perhaps I can help you?"

Thus had she offered to help the unfortunate girl in S. Mario! She laughed mirthlessly.

"I said that myself to a girl a few days ago, she is coming to-morrow for me to help her—the blind leading the blind!"

Her hardness alarmed the Doctor. "I must break this," he thought. "I must make her cry."

But she had no intention of crying; in a hard, even voice she told him the tale of Prince Mirko, and the fateful drive over the Campagna, and when she had finished, relapsed into silence.

"Poor little girl!" he said, stroking her hand. "Poor little girl!"

She looked at him wonderingly.

"Then you do not despise me?" she asked.

"God forbid! I have seen too much of the world and of men. And if you have been foolish, if you have done wrong—which you have not, in my eyes—you are paying for it heavily enough, God knows!"

"I should feel better about it, if I had really loved him—I thought I did, but I know now that I did not—"

"Many women do not love their husbands, the fathers of their children, and it is not counted sinful," he said, smiling.

"Yes, but marriage is different—If I had loved him I should not feel so humiliated.—I was foolish and weak, I let myself go—And now—"

"And now, my dear, you pay the penalty. It is weakness, not vice, that expiates, in this world," said Ferrati grimly. "Yes, you expiate, there is no obviating that. But there is no necessity for bearing more than is unavoidable—we must consider what is to be done. The past is the past, there is no helping that, we must think of the present. Can you go home to your people?"

"Home? Oh, never!" cried Ragna, hiding her face in her hands. "They would turn me out!"

"I thought as much—the usual charity of a virtuous family. Full of self-righteousness—sends missionaries to the heathen and its own flesh and blood to perdition," he added under his breath.

"Well then, home being out of the question, we must think of something else.—Leave it to me my child. I will think it over; you shall not worry, leave it all to me. I shall not fail you."

His honest, steadfast eyes met hers, and she felt in some degree reassured and comforted.

"You are good!" she cried.

He patted her shoulder. "Go to bed now, and keep up the pretence of the headache." (Indeed, it was no pretence by this time.) "I will come to see you again later in the day, and we will talk it all over quietly. In the meantime you must rest." He took from his pocket a little bottle of pellets and gave her one—"Take this at once, it will make you sleep, and when I come back you will be rested and clear in your mind, so that we can discuss your future plans. I shall leave orders that you are not to be disturbed. Remember, above all, that you have nothing to fear, I, at least, shall stand by you, and see you through—you shall see that everything can be arranged."

She made no answer, so he passed his hand lightly over her bowed head, and left the room.

Ragna laid the pellet on the table, and sat on stupidly in her chair, her head supported by her hands. She felt blank and stunned; gradually, out of her blind chaos of misery rose terrible and concrete this thing that was upon her; it obsessed her half-paralysed brain with a sense of inevitable, unreasonable doom. She wondered dully why she had not thought of this contingency, and yet the possibility of it had never entered her mind. To bear a child of his, and in this way! She shivered with horror. And the shame, the disgrace of it! For this could not be hidden, this could not be passed over and buried in oblivion—the coming of the child would blazen her dishonour to the eyes of all men. Oh why could she not die? Surely things had been bad enough as they were before, but this—this was unendurable. The water sparkled there invitingly, beneath the balcony—a plunge and it would soon be over. Why should she live, why bear this shame, while he went scot free? What was there to compel her to tread this Via Crucis, when the way of escape lay open? The water called her; with a feverish hunted look in her eyes she staggered to the balcony, drew the awning aside. The door behind her opened silently, a strong hand grasped her shoulder.

"Doctor!" she gasped.

"Signorina," asked Ferrati sternly, "what were you about to do? Something warned me to come back, and thank Heaven I have been in time! You were about to throw yourself into the Canal, were you not?"

He forced her into a chair, and stood towering accusingly over her. She met his gaze with defiant despair.

"Yes, I was. What right have you to stop me?"

"I have the right to prevent you from adding crime to weakness. Yes, crime," he added, seeing her wince.

"Understand me, had it been a question of yourself only, I should not say this—you see my morality is not of the conventional pattern—but you have not only yourself to think of, there is the child—your child. If by your past weakness, wittingly or unwittingly, you have incurred this responsibility, you cannot repudiate it, you must bear the consequences, you cannot brush them aside. You think that this, the physical part, and the disgrace implied were a price that you could avoid paying by forfeiting your life, but you cannot forfeit for another. You are no longer alone, you have another life to consider, that of an innocent and helpless child who did not ask to be born—"

"But surely, Doctor," she interrupted, "I have a right to decide whether I shall bear this child or not; I have a right to choose death for it and me, rather than the stigma of shame!"

"My dear child, I do not consider that there is any shame. The shame would die in repudiating a fundamental law of nature, of sacrificing two lives to the fetish of conventional morality. What are the conventions, that you should immolate yourself and your child to them? Your duty is this: to bring your child into the world strong and healthy, and you owe it to him to make his life as happy as shall lie in your power—beyond that, nothing can rightly be required of you, and you can do no less. You are no longer merely a girl, a woman, you are a mother!"

Ragna lifted her head; Ferrati's words opened new vistas to her wondering gaze.

"A mother!" she echoed.

"Yes, a mother, and your first duty is to be true to your child—all the rest comes after." His voice softened as he read the response to his call in the girl's face. "You will be brave, you must be brave, for the little one's sake. You see that now, do you not?"

"Yes, I understand that now—it was all so sudden, and so dreadful, it took me unawares. But I see that you are right, I will be brave now, I promise it."

Ferrati had touched the right chord, the chord of self-sacrifice, the battle was won, and he knew it; never again would Ragna attempt self-destruction, come what might.

"And now you will rest as I told you, until this afternoon?"

She signified "yes" with her head. Ferrati brought a glass of water from the toilet table, and she took the little pellet. Then he rang for the chambermaid, and when she had come, said to her:

"Help the Signorina into bed, she has a bad headache, and must rest. I have given her some sleeping medicine, and I leave it to you to see that she is not disturbed. You can tell the Signorina that I am coming back later, and will speak to her then."

So he left the room a second time, his heart full of pity for the wretched girl, the more so, as he had found her so readily responsive to his appeal to duty.

"Poor child!" he repeated. "Poor, poor child!"

He returned to the Lido and lunched with his wife, but was silent and preoccupied. The Signora, accustomed to these moods of her husband's, when his patients caused him anxiety, forbore to question him. When he had finished eating, he lit his toscano, and walked up and down the long terrace of the hotel, his brows knit, his hands joined behind his back; finally he rejoined his wife in her room, whither she had retired for the siesta. She raised her head from the pillow, as he entered, and put down the novel she had been reading.

"Ebbene, Rico?" she asked.

"Virginia mia, I am worried about a patient of mine, a girl who is in great trouble—and I don't know what to do to help her!"

"Ragna Andersen?" she asked quietly.

"How did you guess?"

"My dear man, you are so hopelessly transparent! Besides, I am not blind—a look at her face this morning would have been enough for anybody."

"The fact is, Virginia, I don't know what to do about it."

"Can't she go home?"

"She says her people would turn her out, if they knew."

"Poor girl! No, I suppose she must manage to keep them in the dark somehow. Did she tell you how it happened?"

"She told me in confidence, but one thing I can assure you of, Virginia, she has been most outrageously treated, and taken advantage of—her very goodness and innocence have betrayed her."

Virginia waved this aside. "After all, what does that matter? The fact remains that she is in a hole and must be got out of it. What had you thought of doing for her, Rico?"

"I wanted to ask your advice—a woman knows so much more in a case like this."

What he wished to do was to enlist his wife's sympathy and interest; he knew how invaluable, and how necessary her help would be, for without her adherence, there really was not much he could do.

"Won't you tell me, Virginia, what you think should be done?"

Virginia sat up, dropping her feet down over the edge of the bed; chin in hands, elbows on knees, she reflected, her tumbled dark hair falling over her pretty ivory tinted shoulders, from which the chemise had slipped.

"The first thing, of course, is for her to leave her party before they find out, and how it is that they have suspected nothing, is beyond my comprehension! She must leave them at once.—Fru Bjork is kind, but on her daughter's account, she would throw Ragna off with no compunctions whatever—It's lucky that that old maid they had with them in Florence isn't here—she would have seen it all long ago. I'll tell you what, Rico, Ragna can say she is coming back to Florence with me, and when we go back next week—I always liked the girl and I will do that much anyhow, for her—tell her she can use my name in any way she likes, and she can count on me to help her out. In Florence, she can have it all over quietly and go home afterwards."

"I thought you would help her, Virginia, and she will appreciate it, I know. If you could have seen her utter misery!"

"Would you like me to go to her? I will if it would do any good."

Ferrati raised his wife's face to his, and kissed her.

"Yes, she would appreciate that—to-morrow, you shall go." He paused a moment. "I am thinking how to manage about Fru Bjork, how to get the girl away from her, without her suspecting—"

"Ah, well, you and she must work that out together. Necessity sharpens the wits, and Ragna ought to be able to find a way—I don't think that should prove very difficult."

"I must be getting back to her now. I promised her I would come soon."

"Tell her I will come to-morrow, or she can come to me, and we will arrange it all. Tell her to keep her courage up, and that we will see her through!" Virginia called after him, as he left the room, and he answered her with a smile and a wave of the hand.

In the hotel lobby he met Fru Bjork, anxious inquiry written large upon her face.

"Now, Doctor, what is the matter with Ragna? I am really most anxious about the child."

"My dear Signora," he said, "there is nothing to be alarmed about; I find her very much run down—there may be something more, but until I am certain I prefer not to say anything. All that she needs for the present is complete rest and quiet. I shall go up now and see if her headache is any better, and afterwards I would like to talk over with you the course of treatment I wish to propose for her general health."

"I will go up with you," said Fru Bjork, gathering her skirts about her. The Doctor raised a deprecating hand.

"Afterwards, my dear lady, afterwards. With her head as bad as it was this morning, she ought not to see more than one person at a time."

"Just as you say, Doctor—and I hope you will find the poor child more comfortable. I can't tell you Doctor, how glad I am that you are here to look after her—I have worried over her so, I love her as though she were my own child, and that's a fact. Go up to her then, and I'll wait for you here." She sank on to a wicker settee, fanning herself with an awkward jerky movement.

Ferrati went to Ragna's room, and listened an instant at the door; there was no sound within—He tapped gently and entered in obedience to a languid "Come in!"

Ragna lay on the bed, staring towards the window. She was very pale, her eyes had dark circles and her features looked pinched and worn—In a toneless voice she asked the Doctor to be seated, and he drew a chair beside the bed. He felt her pulse, which was regular, but weak, and glanced anxiously at the sharpened delicacy of her face.

"How do you feel by now?"

"Oh, very tired," she answered wearily, "and rather stunned. My head seems too weak to think—and I must think," she added desperately, passing a hand over her forehead.

"I told you not to worry, that I would do the thinking for you," he reminded her. "Now is it essential that your friends should not guess—or could you take Fru Bjork into your confidence? Would she not help you?" He thought of the motherly anxiety the good woman had just displayed, and wondered if Virginia had not been wrong.

"Fru Bjork!" exclaimed Ragna, shuddering. "Oh, no! I would rather die than tell Fru Bjork! She is a good woman, she would not understand—she would despise me! Oh, not Fru Bjork!"

"Then if it won't do to tell her, you must find a way to leave her without her suspecting. You cannot remain with her much longer—not a day longer than can be helped."

"But how shall I manage it?"

"We will think of some way, and as for the rest, you must come back to Florence, and I will see you through with this. My wife says that you may tell your friends you are going to stop with her—she is very sorry for you, and will do all she can to help you."

"Then you told her—she knows?"

"She had guessed already, but you need not worry, she is quite safe—and my child, you must have some woman friend to help you now. Virginia will do all she can."

"The Signora is very good—but oh, I shall feel ashamed to see her again—now!"

"You need not, I assure you, she understands, and is full of sympathy."

Ragna smiled faintly—it was good to hear that, after all, she would not be friendless.

"Do you know when Fru Bjork intends to return to Christiania?"

"She will be going soon now—she has always said she would go home in July, and we are at the end of June."

Ferrati pursed up his lips.

"June—next Wednesday is the first of July—if she keeps to her plan we may win through—but if she postpones her departure—In any case, I shall tell her that your health will not permit of your taking a long journey now. I shall tell her that I am afraid of a growth of some kind, a tumour, and that I wish to keep you under my observation until I can be sure. She has confidence in me, and if she can be persuaded to leave you in my care—"

"But she will never leave me like that. She is very fond of me, and nothing would induce her to leave me alone and ill in a strange country."

"We must think of a way to get her to do it, something may turn up—and in any case, if the worst comes to the worst, you can quarrel with her on some pretext or other, and leave her."

"Oh, I should hate to do that, she has been so good to me!"

"My dear child, we can't afford to consider your likes and dislikes in the matter, since you feel that you can't confide in her, you must take whatever means offers of leaving her before she finds out. However, there is no reason to precipitate matters, we can wait a few days, in case of something happening. In the meantime, you must be very careful not to arouse her suspicions in any way,—this migraine will tide you over two or three days anyway. We must arrange for you to travel back to Florence with my wife and me, next week; I shall take rooms for you near our apartment, for you can't stop on in a pension now,—and you must have a woman to do the work and look after you."

As an inspiration the thought of Carolina flashed through Ragna's mind.

"Doctor," she said, "there is that girl I promised to help, she is coming here to see me to-morrow,—she might do for a servant for me—at any rate, I should have no need to feel ashamed before her, she knows what it is to be unhappy, and it would be a way of redeeming my promise."

"You might do worse—we can certainly consider the question. Send the girl to me, I will speak to her, and make some inquiries about her. If she proves to be a suitable person, we can take her back to Florence with us."

"How kind you are to me, dear Dr. Ferrati! I don't know what I should do without you, nor how I shall ever thank you!"

"I wish there was more I could do, my poor child! If you want to please me, be brave and gather up all your strength. We all have our hard times to live through, and we must do it as best we can. You are very young, remember, and life lies before you,—you will have many bright and happy days yet—"

Ragna smiled bitterly, and made no answer.

"I think you had better stop in bed, and I shall come again to-morrow. I will tell Fru Bjork that you are not to talk or be disturbed." He took her hand and stroked it gently. "Don't worry and reproach yourself, my child; regretting the past will undo none of the mischief, one must go forward and face the future. Looking backward never does any good; if all the strength wasted in repentance and vain regrets were turned into a wholesome resolve to make the future better than the past! Ah, my dear, the Church has much to be responsible for, in fostering introspection and useless repentance as virtues! Virtues indeed! they sap the strength and muddle the brain, and make one weak and mawkish! Face the future, and make the best of it, that is the true morality!" He smiled whimsically down at the girl. "See how my tongue runs away with me, when I mount one of my hobbies! We shall have long discussions in future, you and I,—and I think you will find that life is not such a bad affair after all!"

He left Ragna much benefited by his cheery optimism, and kindly manner.

"At least I have one real friend," she thought, and then her mind turned to Angelescu. He had meant well by her, he had tried to help her,—would he, if he could have foreseen all? His earnest face with the serious steadfast eyes rose before her mental vision, and she knew that nothing would have made any difference to him. The impulse seized her to write to him, to recall him—but no, that was impossible, she had refused his offer twice, and so decisively that reconsideration was impossible, even if present circumstances had not precluded such a thought. No, as she had made her bed, so must she lie in it. She fell into a state of self-pity, in which she saw herself the victim of adverse circumstance, about to be crushed by the juggernaut-car of fatality, broken and cast out! The flagrant injustice that she alone should suffer the penalty, while Mirko went scot free, seared her soul, but it caused her, nevertheless, a sort of pride. Her sufferings made him appear but a poor creature in his careless detachment from moral responsibility, and in the abstract, the idea of shouldering the whole of the burthen alone, gave her an odd sense of exhilaration. She said defiantly to herself:

"God has denied me the common joys of women. He has chosen me to wreak His vengeance upon; my lover has forsaken me, and mocked me, what matter? I will take up the load he has shirked. I will rise above the condemnation of society. I will prove myself mistress of my fate."

With this, calm came upon her, and she fell asleep.

Fortune favoured Ragna, or at least had for her that ambiguous smile, which for the time being, promises a smoothing of the way, but which, retrospectively, seems but an ironic mask. "Here is the way open before you," says Fate; but the path leads but to the deeper intricacies of the labyrinth, from which we would fain escape.

Fru Bjork received a telegram, announcing the illness of Astrid's fiancÉ, and requesting their instant return.

Ragna was still in bed with a low fever, brought on by the shock and subsequent extreme nervous tension, resulting from her terrible discovery. Fru Bjork, poor woman, was in a quandary; she felt that she must take Astrid back to Christiania, while Dr. Ferrati positively forbade Ragna's undertaking the journey in her weak state of health, and gave his opinion, moreover, that several weeks must elapse before she might contemplate it. The good lady worried, and lost sleep at night, her fat rosy cheeks drooped in anxious curves, and her cap sat perpetually awry on her grey hair. She vacillated hopelessly, without arriving at any decision,—should she and Astrid stop on with Ragna, or should she bundle Ragna off with them, in defiance of Dr. Ferrati's orders? Astrid grew pale, and talked of setting off alone.

At this juncture, the Signora Ferrati stepped in, offering to receive Ragna into her care, and take her back to Florence, where she should remain under the Doctor's eye until he should declare her fit to travel. Fru Bjork, although loath to leave the girl, finally agreed to the arrangement,—indeed, there was nothing else to be done,—and with a heavy heart, set about her preparations for the return journey.

"I don't like it," she kept repeating to Astrid. "I don't like it at all. Something tells me that I should not leave Ragna behind. How shall I explain it to Gitta Boyesen?"

"But, Mother," Astrid would answer, "what else can you do? Ragna can't take a long journey, and she will be perfectly safe with the Ferratis—and I must get back to Edvard!"

"Let us hope that it will all work out for the best!" Fru Bjork would sigh.

Ragna's feelings during these days were mixed. Her relief was great that Fru Bjork and Astrid should leave without discovering her secret, yet she felt lonely and helpless at the prospect of being abandoned by her old and trusting friends,—abandoned to a fate, of which they could have no idea and which she herself could not foresee. When the time for leave-taking came, she broke down utterly, and wept in such a heartbroken fashion, that Fru Bjork untied her bonnet strings, and sitting down announced firmly:

"We will not go,—I cannot go and leave this child in such a state!"

Almost Ragna would have welcomed this change of decision, but the realization of what it would mean, the inevitable discovery, and subsequent shame, brought her to her senses.

"Oh, no, Fru Bjork!" she cried. "It is quite right that you should go! I would not think of letting you stay, I would not indeed! I shall soon get well under Dr. Ferrati's care, and you will see me back in Christiania before you think,"—her heart failed her with the last words, but she said them boldly. "Dear Fru Bjork, you have been so very, very kind to me, and I would not, for worlds, keep you now, when it is your duty to go. Astrid must go to Edvard at once, and she can't go alone."

"Do you really think that, Ragna? Are you quite sure, child, that you don't so very much mind being left alone?"

"But I shan't be alone. I shall be with the Signora Ferrati, and you know how pleasant and kind she is! Really, I don't mind at all.—I am only sorry at parting with you and Astrid, even if only for a short time!"

"I wish it could have been helped," said Fru Bjork regretfully. "I don't like at all leaving you in this way, but as you say, it seems that it must be so.—Well, good-bye my dear, I am glad you have the Ferratis anyway—do whatever they advise, and be sure you let me know how you get on. Good-bye!—Ragna, dear, it does grieve me to leave you!"

She kissed the girl in her motherly way, and followed Astrid to the door; as she went out, she turned once again to wave her plump hand to the pale girl lying on the bed, and the door closed behind her.