Ferrati found the children in bed, reeking of the arnica with which Carolina and Assunta had been bathing their bruises.

"Signor Dottore!" cried Carolina, as he entered, "their poor little bodies are striped like zebras! If the Santissima Madonna and GesÙ Bambino had not protected them they would have been killed!"

Both children burst out sobbing at this rehearsal of their woes, and Ferrati had some ado to make himself heard.

"Now then! Now then!" he said, "there will be a treat to-morrow for good boys who don't cry! Be little men, don't let these women see you sobbing like babies!" He waved his hand laughingly "Who's my good boy? Let us see which of you can stop first!"

"I want my mammina!" sobbed Mimmo.

"I wants her too!" echoed Beppino.

"Ah, giÀ, where is the Signora?" Ferrati asked turning to Assunta.

"Ma chi lo sa, Sor Dottore?" she answered in some confusion, busying herself about Beppino's cot. "She has gone out."

"But where?"

"How should I know? The Signora's affairs are not mine! Nando said she told the fiaccheraio to drive to the Grand Hotel, but more than that I do not know."

Ferrati knitted his brows—the Grand Hotel! She must have gone there to meet someone, for it was too expensive and fashionable a hostelry as well as too much in the public eye, for her to have chosen had she merely been seeking other lodgings than her husband's house. The children had ceased crying and were watching him intently as were also the women.

He set about bandaging the little wrists where they had been cut, still in silence. When he had finished he turned to Carolina:

"Keep the children quiet, you can go on with the arnica. In half an hour you can give them a bowl of milk each, or a little broth. Addio bimbi!" kissing them each in turn, "to-morrow Zia Virginia and I will bring you a treat if you are good."

"Zio Rico!" called Mimmo as Ferrati reached the door.

"Yes, caro?"

"You won't let him come up?"

"No, caro, he shan't come to-night."

"And Zio, I want my mammina."

"Cuor mio, I am going to look for your mammina now. When I find her I shall fetch her to you."

"That's right, as soon as she knows we want her she'll come, won't she, Zio?"

"Sicuro!" answered Ferrati cheerfully—Would he be able to find her though, and would it be in time?

It seemed that the two women read his thoughts for they exchanged a significant glance.

Ferrati, however, had not far to go, for as he descended the stairs he met Ragna coming up, alarm and anxiety writ large on her face, though her eyes were still starry and her cheeks aflame with the joy of the afternoon.

"Are they—tell me, are they—?" she gasped.

"They are not badly hurt," he said soothingly.

"Let me by, let me go to them!" her breath came in swift pants, her bosom heaved.

He took her arm firmly.

"Come now, Ragna, calm yourself. You can't go to them like this, you would excite them and do them harm; you must not!"

"Ah, but you don't know how nearly I—" she exclaimed, and wrenching her arm free sped up the stairs and into the nursery where she flung herself between the cots, sobbing convulsively.

Ferrati stood on the stair gazing after her a moment, then followed her slowly. He looked in through the nursery door and saw her, one arm across either cot, her face hidden, her shoulders shaking with sobs, her hat awry, and Mimmo patting her neck and stray locks of hair with his little bandaged hand, while Beppino on the other side, cuddled close to her protecting arm.

Carolina with fine intuition made a sign to Assunta, and they withdrew noiselessly, leaving their mistress alone with her children.

"We knowed 'oo would come," said Beppino contentedly.

A great wave of emotion had Ragna on its crest, carrying her on, unresisting. She felt dominant within her the powerful impulse of renunciation, it overwhelmed all else. Words Ferrati had spoken to her in Venice, long ago, rang in her ears. "Remember that you are not only a woman, you are a mother, your duty is towards your child, you have no right to cheat him of what should be his!" For the first time she actually realised that Beppino too was her child, bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh as was Mimmo. Hitherto she had always looked on him as altogether his father's, as remote from her personally, and her hatred of the father had been continued in indifference towards the child. Now as she felt the helpless little body lying close within her arm, as she heard the soft little voice lisp out words of confidence, her innermost being stirred at recognition of his oneness with her. But to renounce happiness, to renounce Angelescu! The dark waters of despair engulfed her, she sank down and down—it had been bad enough before, but what would be the torment of life now, without him? How could she give him up, just as she had found him? Her entire being, body and spirit, recoiled from the thought of re-entering that prison from which she had so lately thought to escape forever. For one wild moment the impulse seized her to wrap up the children and carry them off with her. Her fingers twitched feverishly at the bed-clothes. Then the recollection came to her of how Angelescu had involuntarily recoiled at mention of the children. He had not meant her to see it, she knew that, she knew also that he would be unfailingly kind and considerate—but at what cost to himself, to their love? Would she not be preparing a worse torment for both of them? A pale dawn broke on the night of her thoughts; she saw herself no longer as an individual, as a personality warring against circumstance, rebellious towards fate, but rather as an integral part of Fate, a particle of elementary force given in the service of these young lives for their guidance and protection. She saw her task as a mother as she had not yet understood it and in the light of the new vision stood prepared to strip herself of all selfish attributes, of pride and the desire for happiness. Yet she saw it without exaltation, her sacrifice stood in the cold light of the commonplace, a natural sequence of her enlarged understanding. The chill weight of the years before her settled down on her shoulders, but she accepted that weight, bent her neck consciously and consentingly to the unwelcome yoke. Unwelcome it would be, but no longer galling as in the past, she knew in her soul that in the instant of her renunciation, she had passed beyond Egidio's power to hurt her,—at least more than superficially, he had shrunk to insignificance. Never again would she be afraid of him, or stirred to anger on her own account by his vulgar insults.

Mimmo broke in upon her train of thought, she heard his sweet voice in her ear:

"Mammina you have come back to us, you will never leave us again? Di! mammina, mai piÙ?"

She raised her head and kissing him, answered smiling:

"No, cuoricino mio, mai piÙ."

She rose to her feet straightening her hat mechanically as she did so, then as she became conscious of its existence, drew out the long pins, folded up her veil, removed the hat and laid it on the table. There was a finality in her action that struck Ferrati, and when she turned towards him her face startled him, so pale was it, so calm, so stamped with thoughtful decision.

"Ah, you are there, my friend," she said.

"Yes," he answered simply, adding, "I am going home now."

"Is he downstairs?"

"Yes, in the studio, very much subdued. I shall see him on my way out. Be as kind to him as you can—he is disposed to meet you half way."

A faint ironical smile crept over her face, then faded leaving it in its former marble like calm. She made no direct answer.

"After all life is a question of compromises."

He started—this from Ragna!

"You look surprised, my friend—I have grown older, and let us hope, wiser, since morning."

He made no comment, and turned to go.

"Wait a minute," she said, calling him back, "I should like you to leave a note for me at the Grand Hotel, if it is not out of your way."

The Grand Hotel!

"Not at all," he answered, "Command me in any way, I am entirely at your service."

The sincerity of the words pleased her, but she was past feeling much, for the moment. She signed to him to wait so he sat down and watched Carolina feeding the children with a bowl of milk she had just brought.

Presently Ragna returned and handed him an envelope; within were these words:—

"My Dear One,—

"The children claim me, I cannot go,—if I were false to them I should be false to myself and to you. We were wrong to-day when we imagined that we could cut a path for ourselves in spite of circumstance. So we must part. I shall never see you again, but remember that as I was yours to-day, so shall I be throughout the years to come. Your love has set me free, the material world exists for me now but as a dream—I have achieved through you the ultimate emancipation, not death, but freedom from the material circumstances of life. What matters the fate of that charnel house, my body? My spirit is yours, nothing can prevent that. Good-bye, my soul, my life.

"Ragna."

The envelope was addressed to Count Angelescu, Grand Hotel, CittÀ.

Ferrati, taking the letter, glanced at the superscription; his instinct divined the truth, but like the wise man he was, he gave no sign. Only, he lifted Ragna's hand and pressed his lips upon it with the reverence he would have accorded a saint.

As he left the room he turned on the threshold, and the picture he saw: Ragna very pale but consummately calm, leaning on the foot of one of the cots, gazing down at the children, a faint smile parting her lips, her dark-circled eyes shaded by the long lashes, remained with him to the end of his life.