On the last day of the year, while Franco was writing out the very minute directions concerning the care of the flowers and the kitchen-garden, which he intended to leave for his wife's guidance, and the uncle sat reading for the tenth time his favourite book, the History of the Diocese of Como, Luisa went out for a walk with Maria. The sun was shining brightly. There was no snow save on Bisgnago and Galbiga. Maria found a violet near the cemetery, and another down in the Calcinera. There it was really warm, and the air was pleasantly scented with laurel. Luisa sat down to think, with her back to the hill, and allowed Maria to amuse herself by climbing up the bank behind her, and sliding down again on the dry grass.

She had not seen the Professor since Christmas Eve, and she longed to speak with him; not to hear the story of the Maironi will over again, but to get him to tell her about his interview with Franco, when he had shown it to him: to ascertain what Franco's first impression had been and what the Professor's opinion was. As the will had been destroyed, all this could only be of psychological importance, but Luisa's curiosity was not the curiosity of the idle observer. Her husband's conduct had deeply wounded her. Thinking of it over and over again, as she had done ever since Christmas Eve, she had arrived at the conclusion that his silence towards her had been an outrage against justice and affection. It was a bitter sorrow to her to feel her esteem for him diminishing, especially bitter now, on the eve of his departure, and at a time when he really deserved praise. She would have liked, at least, to know that when Gilardoni had shown him the documents there had been some inward struggle, that a more just sentiment had been aroused in his soul, if only for a moment. She rose, took Maria by the hand, and started towards Casarico.

She found the Professor in the garden with Pinella, and told Maria to run and play with the boy, but Maria, always eager to listen to the conversation of her elders, would not hear of going. Then Luisa broached the subject without mentioning any names. She wished to speak to the Professor about certain papers, about those old letters. The Professor, who was crimson, protested that he did not understand. Fortunately, Pinella called Maria, enticing her with a picture-book, and she ran to him, conquered by her curiosity concerning the book. Then Luisa relieved the Professor of his scruples, by informing him that Franco himself had told her everything, and she confessed to him that she had disapproved of her husband's conduct, that it had been, and still was a source of great sorrow to her——

"Why, why, why?" said the worthy Professor, interrupting her. Because Franco had not been willing to do anything. "I have done something! I have done something!" Gilardoni exclaimed, anxiously and excitedly. "But for the love of Heaven, don't tell your husband!" Luisa was amazed. What had the Professor done? And when, and how? And was not the will already destroyed?

Then Gilardoni, as red as a glowing coal, his eyes full of anxiety, his recital often interrupted by such exclamations as, "For mercy's sake, don't tell!—You will be silent, eh?" revealed all his secrets to her, from the preserving of the will to his journey to Lodi. Luisa listened to the very end, and then, clasping her face tightly between her hands, uttered a horrified "Ah!"

"Did I do wrong?" said the poor Professor, much alarmed. "Did I do wrong, Signora Luisina?"

"Very wrong! Terribly wrong! Forgive me, but it looked as if you were proposing some transaction, some bargain, and the Marchesa is sure to believe we are in league with you! Oh, it is awful!"

She wrung her clenched hands as if striving to press into shape, to remodel a more level professorial head for him. In utter amazement the poor Professor kept repeating: "Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! Oh, what an ass I am!" without really comprehending the nature of his blunder. Luisa flung herself upon the parapet overhanging the lake, and stared into the water. Suddenly she started up, beating the back of her right hand upon the palm of her left, her face brightening. "Take me to your study," said she. "Can I leave Maria here?" The Professor nodded, and, trembling, accompanied her to the study. Luisa took a sheet of paper and wrote rapidly: "Luisa Maironi Rigey begs to inform the Marchesa Maironi Scremin that Professor Beniamino Gilardoni is a most faithful friend of both her husband and herself, but that they nevertheless heartily disapprove of his inopportune use of a document which should have been disposed of in a different manner. Therefore, no communication from the Marchesa is either expected or desired."

When she had finished she silently held out the letter to the Professor. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, as soon as he had read it; "For the love of Heaven don't send that letter! What if your husband should find it out? Think what a misfortune for me, for you yourself! And how can it possibly be kept from your husband?" Luisa did not answer, but gazed fixedly at him, not thinking of him, but of Franco; thinking that the Marchesa might look upon the letter as a snare, an attempt to intimidate her, she took it back and tore it in pieces, with a sigh. The Professor became radiant, and wished to kiss her hand, but she protested. She had not done it for his sake or for Franco's but for other reasons. The sacrifice of this outlet for her feelings exasperated her still more against Franco. "He is wrong! He is wrong!" she repeated, with bitterness in her heart, and neither she nor the Professor noticed that Maria was in the room. On seeing her mother leave the garden the little one no longer wished to remain with Pinella, so he had brought her to the door of the study, opening it noiselessly for her. The child, struck by her mother's expression, stopped and stared at her with a look of terror. She saw her tear the letter and heard her exclaim: "He is wrong!" and then she began to cry. Luisa hastened to her, folded her in her arms, and consoled her, and then they immediately took their departure. The Professor's parting words were: "For pity's sake, be silent!"

"Why be silent?" Maria quickly demanded. Her mother did not heed her; her thoughts were elsewhere. Three or four times Maria repeated: "Why be silent?" until at last Luisa said: "Hush! That will do." Then she was quiet for a time, but presently she began again, simply to tease her mother, and lifting her little, laughing face repeated: "Why be silent?" This time she was well scolded, and once more became silent; but when they were passing below the cemetery, only a few steps from home, she again burst forth, with the same mischievous laugh. Then Luisa, who had been absorbed in the effort to compose her face into an expression of indifference, simply gave her a shake, but it sufficed to silence her.

That day Maria was in very high spirits. At dinner, while jesting with her mother, she suddenly recalled the reprimands she had received when out walking, and looking covertly at Luisa, once more repeated her "Why be silent?" with the same timid and provoking little laugh. Her mother pretended not to hear, so she persevered. Then Luisa checked her with an "Enough!" so unusually stern that Maria's little mouth opened wider and wider, and the tears began to flow. Uncle Piero exclaimed: "Oh dear me!" and Franco frowned, showing that he disapproved of his wife's action. As Maria kept on crying, he vented his displeasure upon her, took her in his arms, and carried her off, screaming like an eagle. "Better still!" said Uncle Piero. "Fine disciplinarians, both of you!" "You let them alone," said Cia, for Luisa did not speak. "Parents must be obeyed." "That's it! Let us have your wisdom also!" Uncle Piero retorted, and Cia relapsed into sullen silence.

Meanwhile Franco returned, having deposited Maria in one corner of the alcove-room, grumbling something about people who seemed bound to make children cry. And now Luisa also was vexed, and went to fetch Maria, whom she presently brought back in a lachrymose but mute state. The short meal ended badly, for Maria would not eat, and all the others were out of temper for one reason or another; all save Uncle Piero, who set about lecturing Maria, half seriously half playfully, until he succeeded in bringing a little sunshine back to her face. After dinner Franco went to look after some flower-pots, which he kept in the cellar below the little hanging garden, and took Maria with him. Seeing her once more in good spirits, he gently questioned her about what had happened. What did she mean by that "Why be silent?" "I don't know." "But why did mamma not wish you to say it?" "I don't know. I kept saying that, and mamma kept scolding me." "When?" "Out walking." "Where did you go?" "To the Signor Ladroni's." (It was Uncle Piero who had thus simplified the Professor's name.) "And did you begin saying that when you were at Signor Ladroni's house?" "No. Signor Ladroni said it to mamma." "What did he say?" "Why, papa, you don't understand anything! He said: 'For pity's sake be silent!'" Franco said no more. "Mamma tore a paper at Signor Ladroni's house," Maria added, believing her father would be all the better pleased the more she told him concerning that visit, but he ordered her to be quiet. On returning to the house Franco asked Luisa, with an expression that was far from amiable, why she had made the child cry. Luisa scrutinised him closely. It seemed to her he suspected something, and she asked indignantly if he expected her to seek to justify herself for such petty matters. "Oh no!" Franco answered coldly, and went into the garden to see if the dry leaves at the base of the orange-trees and the straw around the trunks were in order, for the night promised to be very cold. As he worked over the plants he reflected that had they possessed intelligence and words they would have shown themselves more affectionate, more grateful than usual, on account of his imminent departure, while Luisa had the heart to be harsh with him. He did not remember that he also had been harsh. Luisa, on the other hand, at once regretted her answer, but she could not hold him back, throw her arms about his neck, and end it all with a kiss or two; that other matter weighed too heavily on her heart. Franco finished swathing his orange trees and came into the house for his cape, intending to go to church at Albogasio. Luisa, who was in the kitchen peeling some chestnuts, heard him pass through the corridor, stood hesitating a moment, struggling with herself, and then rushed out, catching up with him just as he was starting downstairs.

"Franco!" said she. Franco did not answer, but seemed to repulse her. Then she seized his arm and dragged him into the neighbouring alcove room.

"What do you want?" said he, shaken, but still determined to appear vexed. Luisa, instead of answering, threw her arms about his neck, drew his unwilling head upon her breast, and said softly—

"We must not quarrel these last days."

He had expected words of excuse, and pushed his wife's arm aside, answering dryly—

"I have not quarrelled. Perhaps you will tell me," he added, "what Professor Gilardoni confided to you that was such a great secret that he felt obliged to entreat you to be silent."

Luisa looked at him, amazed and pained. "You doubted me?" said she. "You questioned the child? Did you indeed do that?"

"Well," he cried, "and what if I did? Anyway, I am well aware you always think the worst of me. Listen now. I don't want to know anything." She interrupted him. "But I will tell you! I will tell you!" His conscience was pricking him a little on account of his questioning of the child, and now seeing Luisa ready to speak, he would not listen to her, and forbade her to explain. But his heart was full to overflowing with bitterness, for which he must find an outlet. He complained that since Christmas Eve she had not been the same to him. Why protest? He had seen it clearly. Indeed, something else had long been clear to him. What? Oh, something very natural! Perfectly natural! Was he, after all, worthy of her love? Certainly not. He was only a poor useless creature, and nothing more. Was it not natural that upon knowing him better she should love him less? For surely she did love him less than at one time!

Luisa trembled, fearful that this might be true.

"No, Franco, no!" she cried, but her very dread of not saying the words with proper conviction was sufficient to paralyze her voice. He had expected a violent denial, and murmured terrified: "My God!" Then it was her turn to be terrified, and she pressed him despairingly in her arms, sobbing: "No, no, no!" By means of some magnetic current they understood each other's every thought, and remained long united in a close embrace, speaking in a mute, spasmodic effort of their whole being, complaining one of the other, reproaching, passionately striving to draw together again, revelling in the sharp and bitter delight of being, for the moment, united by sheer force of will and of love, in spite of the secret disunion of their ideas, of their natures; and all this without a word, without a sound.

Franco once more started to go to church. He would not invite Luisa to accompany him, hoping she would do so of her own free will, but she did not, fearing he might not wish it.

On the morning of the seventh of January, shortly after ten o'clock, Uncle Piero sent for Franco.

The uncle was still in bed. He was in the habit of rising late, because his room could not be heated, and for the sake of economy he did not wish the fire in the little salon lighted too early. However, the cold did not prevent his sitting up in bed and reading, half his chest and both arms outside the covers.

"Ciao! Good-morning!" said he, as Franco entered.

From the tone of his greeting, from the expression of the fine face, serious in its kindliness, Franco understood that Uncle Piero was about to say something unusual.

In fact, the uncle pointed to the chair beside his bed, and uttered the most solemn of his exordiums—

"Sit you down!"

Franco sat down.

"So you are leaving to-morrow?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Good!"

It would seem that in uttering that "Good!" the uncle's heart came into his mouth, for the word filled his cheeks, and came out full and ringing.

"So far," the old man continued, "you have never heard me—let us say—either approve or disapprove of your plan. Perhaps I did not feel quite sure you would carry it out. But now——"

Franco stretched out both hands to him. "Now," Uncle Piero went on, pressing those hands in his own, "seeing you are firm in your resolve, I say to you: Your resolve is good. We are in need, go; work, work is a great thing! May God help you to begin well, and then help you to persevere, which is a far more difficult thing. There!"

Franco would have kissed his hands, but he was quick to withdraw them. "Let them alone! Let them alone!" And he once more began to speak.

"Now listen. It is quite possible we may never meet again." Franco protested. "Yes, yes, yes!" the old man exclaimed, withdrawing his soul from his eyes and voice. "Those are all fine things, things that must be said. But let them go!"

The eyes once more resumed their kindly and serious light, and the voice its grave tone.

"It is quite possible we shall never meet again. After all, I put it to you, what good am I now in this world? It would be far better for you if I took my departure. Perhaps your grandmother resents my having taken you in; perhaps, if I were gone, it would be easier for her to accept a reconciliation. Therefore, supposing we never meet again, I beg you to make some overtures to her as soon as I am dead, if things have not already been arranged."

Franco rose and embraced his uncle with tears in his eyes.

"I have made no will," Uncle Piero continued, "and I shall not make one. What little I have belongs to Luisa; no will is necessary. I commend Cia to your care. Do not let her want for a bed and a crust of bread. As to my funeral, three priests will suffice to sing my requiem with true feeling; our own priest, Intrioni, and the Prefect of Caravina. There is no necessity of having five, who will sing it for love of the candles and the white wine. Leave the question of my clothes to Luisa, she will know what to do with them. You yourself will keep my repeater to remind you of me. I should like to leave Maria a keepsake, but what shall it be? I might give her a piece of my gold chain. If you have a little medallion or a crucifix you may attach it to my chain and hang it round her neck. And now, Amen!"

Franco was in tears. It was a great shock to hear the uncle speak of his death thus calmly, as if it had been some matter of business which must be arranged judiciously and honestly; the uncle who, when conversing with his friends, seemed so deeply attached to life that he would often say: "If one could only avoid that inevitable breakdown!!"

"Ah! Now tell me," said Uncle Piero, "what sort of work do you expect to find?"

"T. writes that at first I am to go into a newspaper office in Turin. Perhaps I shall find something better later on. If I don't earn enough to live on in the office, and nothing else turns up, I shall come back. Therefore all this must be kept perfectly secret—at least, for a time."

Uncle Piero was incredulous concerning the possibility of secrecy. "And how about the letters?" he inquired.

As to letters, it had been arranged that Franco should address his to the postoffice at Lugano, and Ismaele would take those from the family to Lugano, and bring back his. And what should they tell their friends? They had already said that Franco was going to Milan, on the eighth, on business, and would be absent perhaps a month, perhaps longer.

"It is not the most agreeable thing in the world to have to throw dust in people's eyes," the uncle said. "But however...! I am going to embrace you now, Franco, for I know you are leaving early to-morrow morning, and we shall hardly be alone together to-day. Good-bye, then. Once more, remember all my injunctions, and don't forget me. Oh, one thing more! You are going to Turin. As a government official I always did what I could to be of service to my country. I never conspired, and I would not conspire even now, but I have always loved my country. And so, salute the tricolour for me. Good-bye, my dear boy!"

Then Uncle Piero opened his arms.

"You shall come to Piedmont also, uncle," Franco said, as he rose from that embrace, greatly moved. "If I can only manage to earn money enough I shall send for you all."

"Ah no, my dear boy! I am too old, I shall not make another move." "Very well, then. I myself will come next spring, with two hundred thousand of my friends."

"That's it! Two hundred thousand pumpkins! A fine idea! Fine hopes!—Oh! here is Signorina MissipipÌ."

Signorina MissipipÌ—thus the family called Maria in happy moments—came in, dignified and serious. "Good-morning, uncle. Will you say 'MissipipÌ' for me?"

Her father lifted her up and placed her on Uncle Piero's bed. Smiling the old man drew her towards him, and set her across his legs.

"Come here, miss. Did you sleep well? And did the doll sleep well, and the mule also? The mule was not there? So much the better. Yes, yes! I am coming to 'MissipipÌ.' Am I not to have a kiss first? Only one? Then I shall have to say:

Maria listened as if hearing the lines for the first time, then she burst out laughing, and began to jump and clap her hands, while her uncle laughed with her.

"Papa," said she, suddenly becoming serious. "Why are you crying? Have you been naughty?"

They expected many friends would call that day, many who had promised to come and say good-bye to Franco before his departure for Milan. Luisa performed the miracle of lighting the stove in Siberia, as Uncle Piero called the hall, and at one time Donna Ester, the two Pauls from Loggio, Paolin and Paolon, and Professor Gilardoni were all there together. Then presently Signora Peppina arrived, most unexpectedly, for she had never been to see them since the search. "Oh, my dear SÜra Luisa! Oh, my dear Don Franco! Is it true you are really going away?" Paolin began to shift uneasily on his chair, for he feared Signora Peppina had been sent by her husband to see who had and who had not rallied round the suspected man, in this house that was under the ban. He longed to go away at once with his Paolon, but Paolon was more dense. "How shall I manage now, with this idiot, who doesn't understand anything?" thought Paolin, and without looking at Paolon he said to him, in an undertone: "Let us go, Paol, let us go!" It did indeed take Paolon some time to get it through his head, but finally he arose and went out with Paolin, getting his lesson on the stairs.

Franco had the same thought as Paolin, and greeted Signora Peppina coldly. The poor woman could have wept, for she dearly loved his wife, and held Franco himself in great esteem, but she understood his aversion, and in her heart excused it. Franco was relieved when Veronica came to call him.

He was wanted in the kitchen garden. He went there and found Signor Giacomo Puttini and Don Giuseppe Costabarbieri, who had come to say good-bye, but having been informed by Paolin and Paolon of the presence of Signora Peppina, they did not wish her to see them. Even the soil of the kitchen-garden scorched their feet. While the little lean hero was puffing and parrying Franco's invitation to go up to the house, the little fat hero was rolling his head and his small eyes like a good-natured blackbird, looking from the hills to the lake, almost from a habit of suspicion. He caught sight of a boat coming from Porlezza. Who knows? Might it not be bringing the Imperial and Royal Commissary? Although the boat was still at some distance, he immediately began to cast about for an excuse for going away, and determined to take Puttini to call upon the Receiver, as they would be sure of not finding Signora Peppina at home.

Having lavished many hasty and muttered compliments on Franco, the two old hares trotted off, with bowed heads, leaving Franco in the kitchen-garden. Meanwhile the boat Don Giuseppe had seen had come rapidly forward, and was now passing in front of the garden, at some distance from the shore. It contained a lady and a gentleman. The gentleman rose and saluted Franco in a loud voice: "How are you, Don Franco? Long life to you!" The lady waved her handkerchief. The Pasottis! Franco saluted with his hat.

The Pasottis in Valsolda in January! Why had they come? And that greeting! Pasotti salute him thus? Pasotti, who had never been near them since the search? What did all this mean? Franco, greatly perplexed, went up to the house and told the news. All were amazed, and most of all Signora Peppina. "How? Do you really mean it? The Signor Controller of all men! And Signora Barborin also, poor little woman!" The event was excitedly discussed. Some thought one thing, some another. In about five minutes Pasotti came noisily in, dragging Signora Barborin behind him. She was laden with shawls and bundles and half dead with the cold. The poor creature could only keep repeating: "Two hours in the boat! Two hours in the boat!"

"Whatever brought you to Valsolda in this weather, SÜra Pasotti?" Peppina screamed at her. "Oh, gracious! She don't understand anything, poor little woman!" And though Luisa and Ester shouted the same question in her ear, and though she opened her mouth wide, the poor deaf woman could not understand, and continued to answer at random: "Have I had my dinner? If I will dine here?" At last Pasotti came to the rescue, and told them that he and his wife had been called away by urgent business in October, and the last washing had been left undone. His wife had been worrying him for some time about that blessed washing, and finally he had made up his mind to satisfy her by coming. Then Donna Ester turned to Signora Pasotti, going through the pantomime of washing.

Barborin glanced at her husband, who had his eyes fixed upon her, and answered: "Yes, yes. The washing! The washing!" That glance, the order she read in the Controller's eyes, made Luisa suspect a mystery underlying all this. This mystery and the inexplicable effusiveness of Pasotti suggested another suspicion to her. What if they had come on her account and Franco's? What if the Professor's trip to Lodi had something to do with bringing about this unexpected visit? She would have liked to consult the Professor and beg him to remain until the Pasottis had left, but then, how could she speak to him without Franco's noticing it? Meanwhile Donna Ester was saying good-bye, and Gilardoni was graciously permitted to escort her home.

The Pasottis could not go up to Albogasio Superiore until the farmer, who had been notified at once, should have had time to prepare and heat at least one room for their reception. The Controller at once proposed a three-handed game of tarocchi with the Engineer and Franco. Then Signora Peppina went away, and Barborin asked Luisa to allow her to withdraw for a few minutes, and begged her hostess to accompany her. As soon as he was alone with her friend in the alcove room, she glanced all about her with wide, frightened eyes, and then whispered: "We are not here on account of the washing, you know. Not on account of the washing!" Luisa questioned her silently with face and gestures, for had she spoken in a loud voice they would have heard her in the hall. This time Signora Pasotti understood, and replied that she did not know anything, that her husband had not told her anything, that he had ordered her to corroborate the story about the washing, but that really she was not in the least anxious about it. Then Luisa took a piece of paper and wrote: "What do you suspect?" Signora Pasotti read the words, and then began a most complicated pantomime: shakings of the head, rollings of the eyes, sighs, imploring glances towards the ceiling. It was as if a mighty struggle were going on within her between hope and fear. At last she uttered an "Ah?" seized the pen, and wrote below Luisa's question:

"The Marchesa!"

Then she dropped the pen and stood looking at her friend. "She is at Lodi," she said in an undertone. "The Controller has been to Lodi. So there you have it!" And she hastened back to the hall, faring to arouse her husband's suspicions.

The game over, Pasotti went to one of the windows, saying something in a loud voice about the effect of the twilight, and called Franco to him. "You must come and see me this evening," he said softly. "I have something to say to you." Franco sought to excuse himself. He was starting the next morning for Milan, leaving his family for some time; he could hardly spend this last evening away from home. Pasotti answered that it was absolutely necessary. "It concerns your journey to-morrow!" said he.

"It concerns your journey to-morrow!" As soon as the Pasottis had left for Albogasio Superiore, Franco repeated the conversation to his wife. He had been much upset by it. So Pasotti knew! He would not have been so mysterious had he not been alluding to the journey to Turin, and Franco was greatly vexed to think that Pasotti was aware of this. But how had he found out? Perhaps the friend in Turin had been indiscreet. And now what did Pasotti want of him? Was another blow perhaps about to be struck by the police? But Pasotti was not the man to come and warn him. And all that hypocritical amiability? Perhaps they did not wish him to go to Turin, did not wish him to find an easier path, to free himself and his family from poverty, from commissaries and gendarmes. He thought and thought, and finally decided this must be the reason. In her heart Luisa greatly doubted it. She feared something else; but she also was persuaded Pasotti knew about Turin, and this upset all her suppositions. After all, the only way was to go and find out.

Franco went at eight o'clock and Pasotti received him with the most effusive cordiality, and apologised for his wife's absence, she having already gone to bed. Before opening the conversation he insisted that Franco should take a glass of S. Colombano, and a piece of panettone. With the wine and the cake Franco was obliged to swallow, much against his will, many declarations of friendship, and the most exalted eulogies upon his wife, his uncle, and himself. The glass and the plate being at last empty, the mellifluous rogue showed himself disposed to come to business.

They were seated facing each other at a small table. Pasotti, leaning back comfortably in his chair, held a red and yellow silk handkerchief in his hands, with which he played constantly.

"Well," said he, "as I told you, my dear Franco, the matter concerns your journey to-morrow. I heard it said to-day at your house that you are going away on business. Now it remains to be seen whether I am not bringing you still more important business than that which calls you to Milan."

Franco remained silent, surprised by this unexpected preamble. Pasotti continued, his eyes fixed on the handkerchief which he never ceased handling.

"Of course, my good friend Don Franco Maironi knows that if I touch upon intimate and delicate questions it is because I have a serious reason for doing so; because I feel it my duty, and because I am authorised to do so."

The hands became still, the shining and cunning eyes were raised to Franco's distrustful and troubled eyes.

"It concerns both your present and your future, my dear Franco."

Having uttered these words, Pasotti resolutely laid aside the handkerchief. Resting his arms and his clasped hands on the little table, he went to the heart of the matter, keeping his eyes fixed upon Franco, who now, in his turn, leaning back in his chair, returned the gaze, his face pale, his attitude one of hostile defiance.

"You must know that the old friendship I bear your family has long been urging me to do something to put an end to a most painful quarrel. Your good father, Don Alessandro!—What a heart of gold!—How fond he was of me!" (Franco was aware that his father had once threatened Pasotti with his cane, for meddling overmuch in his family affairs.) "Never mind! Having learned that your grandmother was at Lodi, I said to myself last Sunday: After all the trouble the Maironis have had, perhaps this is the right moment. Let us go and make the attempt. And I went."

There was a pause. Franco was quivering. What a mediator he had had! And who had asked for mediation?

"I must tell you," Pasotti went on, "that I feel satisfied. Your grandmother has her own opinions, and she has reached an age when opinions are not easily changed; you know her character; she is very firm, but after all, she is not heartless. She loves you, you know, and she suffers. There is a continuous struggle going on within her, between her sentiments and her principles; or, one might rather say, between her sentiments and her resentment. Poor Marchesa, it is painful to see how she suffers! But anyhow she is beginning to yield. Of course we must not expect too much. She is indeed yielding, but not sufficiently to break what sustains her—her principles I mean, especially her political principles."

Franco's eyes, his twitching jaws, a quivering of his whole person said to Pasotti: "Woe to you if you touch upon that point!" Pasotti stopped. Perhaps he was thinking of the cane of the late Don Alessandro.

"I understand your feelings," he continued. "Do you think I don't? I eat the government's bread, and must keep what I feel shut up in my heart, but, nevertheless, I am with you. I sigh for the moment when certain colours shall replace certain others. But your grandmother holds different opinions, and there is nothing for it but to take her as she is. If we want to arrive at an understanding we must take her as she is. You may seek to oppose her as I myself did, but——"

"All this talk appears to me perfectly useless," Franco exclaimed, rising.

"Wait!" Pasotti added. "The affair may not prove as disagreeable as you think! Sit down and listen." But Franco would not hear of resuming his seat.

"Out with it, then!" said he, his voice ringing impatiently.

"First of all your grandmother is prepared to recognise your marriage——"

"How kind!" Franco put in.

"Wait!—--and to make you a suitable allowance: from what I heard I should think of from six to eight thousand svanziche a year. Not bad, eh?"

"Go on."

"Be patient! There is nothing humiliating in all this. Had there been a single humiliating condition I should not have mentioned the matter to you. Your grandmother wishes you to have an occupation, and also desires that you give a certain guarantee not to take part in political doings. Now there is a decorous way of combining these two points, as you yourself will be obliged to recognise, although I tell you plainly that I had proposed a different course to your grandmother. My idea was that she should place you at the head of her affairs. You would have had enough to do to keep you from thinking of anything else. However, your grandmother's idea is good also. I know fine young fellows like yourself, who think as you do, and who are in the judicial service. It is a most independent and respectable calling. A word from you and you will find yourself an auditor of the court." "I?" Franco burst out. "I? No, my dear Pasotti! No! They don't send the police into my house—be quiet!—they don't brutally dismiss from service an honest man, whose only crime is that he is my wife's uncle,—be quiet, I tell you!—they don't seek every possible means of reducing my family and myself to the verge of starvation to-day, that they may offer us filthy bread to-morrow! No, my man, no! Do your worst! By God! I am not to be trapped by any one through hunger! Tell my grandmother so, you——you——you——"

Pasotti's nature certainly had much that was feline; he was rapacious, cunning, prudent, a flatterer, quick to feign, but also subject to fits of rage. He had continued to interrupt Maironi's outpouring with protests which became ever more violent, and at this last invective, forseeing the approach of a deluge of accusations which were all the more exasperating because he could guess their character, he also started to his feet.

"Stop!" said he. "What do you mean by all this?"

"Good-night!" cried Franco, who had seized his hat. But Pasotti had no intention of letting him go thus. "One moment!" said he, bringing his fist down swiftly and repeatedly on the little table. "You people are deluding yourselves! You hope great things from that will; but it is not a will at all, it is simply a bit of waste paper, the ravings of a madman!" Franco, who had already reached the door, stopped short, stunned by the blow. "What will?" said he.

"Come now!" Pasotti retorted, half coldly, half mockingly. "We understand each other perfectly!"

A flash of rage once more set Franco's blood on fire. "We do not!" he cried. "Out with it! Speak! What do you know of any will?"

"Ah! Now we are getting on famously!" Pasotti said with ironical sweetness.

Franco could have strangled him.

"Didn't I tell you I have been to Lodi? So of course I know!"

Franco, quite beside himself, protested that he was entirely in the dark.

"Of course," Pasotti continued, with greater irony than before. "It is for me to enlighten the gentleman! Then I will inform you that Professor Gilardoni, who is by no means the friend you believe him to be, went to Lodi at the end of December, and presented himself before the Marchesa with a legally worthless copy of a will which he pretends was made by your late grandfather. This will appoints you, Don Franco, residuary legatee, in terms attrociously insulting to both the wife and the son of the testator. So now you know. Indeed, Signor Gilardoni did not betray his trust, but stated that he had come on his own responsibility, and without your knowledge." Franco listened, as pale as death, feeling darkness creeping over his sight and his soul, mustering all his strength that he might not lose his head, but be able to give a fitting answer.

"You are right," said he. "Grandmother is right also. It is Professor Gilardoni who has done wrong. He showed me that will three years ago, on the night of my marriage. I told him to burn it, and believed he had done so. If he did not, he deceived me. If he really went to Lodi on the charming errand you describe, he has committed an act of outrageous indelicacy and stupidity. You were quite justified in thinking ill of us. But mark this! I despise my grandmother's money as heartily as I despise the money of the government, and as this lady has the good fortune to be the mother of my father, I will never—never, I say—although she resort to the most base, the most perfidious means of ruining me—never make use of a document that dishonours her. I am too much her superior! Go and tell her this in my name, and tell her also to withdraw her offers, for I spurn them! Good-night!!"

He left Pasotti in a state of utter amazement, and went his way, trembling with over-excitement and rage. He forgot his lantern, and went down the hill in the dark, striding along, neither knowing nor caring where he placed his feet, and from time to time uttering an ejaculation, pouring out that which was seething within him —rage against Gilardoni, and accusations against Luisa!

Uncle Piero had gone to bed early, and Luisa was waiting for Franco in the little salon with Maria, whom she had kept up that her father might see something of her this last night. Poor little Signorina MissipipÌ had very soon grown weary, and had begun to open wide her little mouth, and assume a tearful expression, asking in a small and pitiful voice: "When is papa coming?" But she possessed a mamma who was unrivalled in consoling the afflicted. Now it was some time since Signorina MissipipÌ had owned a pair of whole little shoes: and little shoes, even in Valsolda, cost money. Not much money, it is true, but what is to be done when you have hardly any? However, this unique mamma was also unrivalled in shoeing those who were shoeless. The very day before, Luisa, in searching for a piece of rope in the attic, had found a boot which had belonged to her grandfather, buried beneath a heap of rubbish, of empty boxes and broken chairs. She had put it in water to soften, and had borrowed a shoemaker's knife, an awl, and shears. She now took the venerable boot, that frightened Maria, and placed it on the table. "Now we will recite its funeral oration," said she, with that liveliness she could assume at will, and of which even mortal anguish could not rob her, if she deemed it necessary to be lively. "But first you must ask your great-grandfather's permission to take his boot." She made Maria clasp her hands, and recite the following jingle, her eyes comically raised to the ceiling.

Then followed a somewhat irreverent fancy, one of many such born in Luisa's brain—a strange story of the little angel who polishes the boots in heaven, and who one day let great-grandfather's boot fall to the earth while attempting to grab a bit of golden bread he had been forbidden to touch. Maria brightened visibly; she laughed and interrupted her mother with a hundred questions concerning the other boot that was still in heaven. What would her great-grandfather do with that? Her mother replied that he would apply it from behind to the Emperor of Austria, and push him out of heaven with it, if he chanced to meet him there.

Just at that moment Franco entered.

Luisa at once saw signs of storm on his brow and in his eyes.

"Well?" she questioned. Franco answered shortly: "Put Maria to bed." Luisa observed that she had kept the child up waiting for him, that she might spend a little time with him. "I tell you to put her to bed!" Franco said, so harshly that Maria began to cry. Luisa flushed, but was silent. Lighting a candle she took the child in her arms and silently held her up that her father might give her a kiss. He did so coldly, and then Luisa carried her away. Franco did not follow her. The sight of the boot irritated him, and he threw it upon the floor. Then he sat down, planted his elbows on the table, and rested his head in his hands.

The bitter thought that Luisa was Gilardoni's accomplice had immediately flashed into his mind while Pasotti was talking, and with it there came also the recollection of that "Why be silent?" of that "Enough!" and of the child's story. He felt as if he had a whirlwind within him, in which this idea was being continually caught up and whirled away, to reappear again farther down, ever nearer the heart.

"Well?" Luisa once more asked, as she entered the room. Franco looked at her a moment in silence, scrutinising her closely. Then he rose and seized her hands. "Tell me if you know anything?" said he. She guessed his meaning, but that look and manner offended her. "What do you mean?" she exclaimed, her face aflame. "Why do you ask in that way?" "Ah! you do know!" cried Franco flinging away her hands, and raising his arms with a despairing gesture. She foresaw what was coming—his suspicion of her complicity with Gilardoni, her denial, and the mortal irremediable offence Franco would be offering her if, in his wrath, he refused to trust her word, and she clasped her hands in terror. "No, Franco! No, Franco!" she murmured softly, and threw her arms about his neck, striving to close his lips with kisses. But he misunderstood her, believed she was seeking forgiveness, and pushed her aside. "I know! Yes, I know!" she cried, once more casting herself passionately upon his breast. "But I found out afterwards, when it was already done, and I was as indignant as you are, even more indignant!" But Franco was too anxious to give vent to his feelings, too anxious to offend. "How can I know you are speaking the truth?" he exclaimed. She started back with a cry, and then once more coming a step nearer, she held out her arms to him. "No, no!" she entreated in agony, "Tell me you believe me! Tell me so now, for if you do not say so, you don't know, you can't realise what will happen!"

"What is it I can't realise?"

"You don't know me as I am, for though I may love you still, I can never again be a wife to you, and though I may suffer deeply, I shall never change, never again. Do you realise what that means, never again?"

He drew her slender, trembling figure towards him, pressed her hands as if to crush them, and said, in a stifled voice: "I will believe you! Indeed I will believe you!" But Luisa, gazing at him through her tears, was not satisfied. "I will believe you?" she said. "I will believe you?"

"I do believe you, I do believe you!"

Indeed he did believe her; but where there is anger there is always pride as well. He did not wish to surrender entirely, and at once, and his tone was rather condescending than convinced. Both were silent, holding each other's hands, and then with a slow, almost imperceptible movement they began to draw apart. It was Luisa who at last gently drew away completely. She felt this silence must be broken; he could find no glowing words, and cold words she would not speak, so she began to tell him how she had heard of the unfortunate journey to Lodi from Gilardoni himself. Seated at the table opposite her husband, she spoke in a calm voice that was not precisely cold, but rather grieved. While she was relating the Professor's disclosures Franco again took fire, and often interrupted her. "And did you not say that to him?—And did you not say this to him?—Did you tell him he was a fool?—Did you not call him an ass?" At first Luisa ignored these exclamations, but finally she protested. She had already said that Gilardoni's blunder had filled her with indignation, but now it would almost seem as if her husband doubted this. Franco was reduced to unwilling silence.

Her story finished, he once more stormed against that blockhead of a philosopher, and Luisa was moved to take his part. After all he was their friend; he had indeed made a terrible mistake, but with the best of intentions. Where were all Franco's maxims about charity, and forgiving injuries, if he was not willing to forgive one whose only wish had been to benefit him? And here thoughts came to her which she did not utter. She reflected that Franco was ready enough to forgive great things when there was glory and sometimes even folly in forgiving, while he would not now forgive a slight offence when there were the best of reasons for doing so. When she spoke of charity Franco became exasperated; he did not venture to say he felt he did not deserve a similar attack, but returned the blow somewhat roughly. "Ah! Indeed!" he exclaimed, with a reticence that was full of insinuations. "So you defend him! Oh, of course!"

Luisa's shoulders twitched nervously, but she held her peace.

"And why did you not speak!" Franco continued. "Why did you not tell me everything at once?"

"Because when I reproached Gilardoni he entreated me not to tell. Besides, I thought—and I was perfectly correct—that the thing being done, it was useless to cause you such great annoyance. The last day of the year, when you were so angry, I wished to tell you, to relate all Gilardoni had confided to me. Do you remember? But you absolutely refused to listen. I did not insist, especially as Gilardoni had told your grandmother we knew nothing about the matter."

"She did not believe him. Naturally!"

"And what good would it have done if I had spoken? As it is, Pasotti must have seen plainly that you knew nothing."

Franco did not answer. Then Luisa asked him to repeat the conversation to her, and she listened to his recital with breathless attention. She guessed, her intuition sharpened by hatred, that if Franco had accepted the proffered position, a further condition would have been imposed: separation from her uncle, from an official who had been dismissed from service for political reasons. "Certainly," she said, "she would have demanded this also. Canaille!" Her husband started, as if he also had been cut to the quick by that lash. "Steady," said he. "Be careful of your expressions! In the first place, that is only a supposition of yours, and then——"

"Only a supposition? And how about the rest? How about the cowardly action she proposed to you?"

Franco, who had answered Pasotti with such violence, now answered his wife weakly.

"Yes, yes, yes! But after all——"

It was her turn to be violent now. The idea that his grandmother should dare propose that they forsake the uncle drove her nearly out of her mind. "You will at least acknowledge this," she cried, "that she deserves no mercy? My God! And to think that will still exists!"

"Oh!" Franco exclaimed. "Are we to begin over again?"

"Let us begin over again! Have you any right to demand that I shall neither think nor feel save in such a way as is pleasing to you? Did I obey you I should be cowardly, I should deserve to become a slave. And I will be neither cowardly nor a slave!"

The rebel he had suspected, even felt at times lurking behind the loving woman, the creature possessed of an intellect intensely proud, and stronger than love, whom he had never succeeded in conquering completely, now stood before him, quivering in the consciousness of her rebellion.

"Well, well!" said Franco, as if speaking to himself, "so you would be cowardly, would be a slave? Do you at least reflect that I am going away to-morrow?"

"Do not go! Stay here! Carry out your grandfather's wishes. Remember what you told me concerning the origin of the Maironi wealth. Give it all back to the Ospitale Maggiore. See that justice is done!"

"No," Franco retorted. "These are idle dreams. The end does not justify the means. The real end with you is to strike my grandmother. This talk of the Ospitale is simply a means of justifying the blow. No, I will never make use of that will. I declared as much to Pasotti, in such strong language that should I ever change, I should deserve to be spit upon. I shall certainly leave to-morrow."

A long silence followed, then the dialogue was once more resumed, but the two voices were cold and sad as if now some dead thing lay in the heart of either.

"Do you realise," said Franco, "that I should be dishonouring my own father?"

"In what way?"

"In the first place by the outrageous nature of the terms in which the document is couched, and then by implying my father's complicity in the suppression of the will. But then you don't understand these matters. And, after all, what do you care?"

"But there is no need to speak of suppression. It is quite possible the will was never found."

Another silence. Even the tallow candle that was burning on the table had a lugubrious look. Luisa rose, picked up the great-grandfather's boot, and prepared to begin her work. Franco went to the window and pressed his forehead against the glass. He remained there some time, absorbed in contemplation of the shadows of night. Presently he said softly, without turning his head:

"Never, never has your soul been wholly mine."

No answer.

Then he faced about and asked his wife in a tone entirely free from anger, and with that ineffable gentleness which was his in moments of moral or physical depression, if, since the very beginning of their union, he had ever failed her in any way. An almost inaudible "No" was the answer.

"Then perhaps you did not love me as I believed?"

"No, no, no!"

Franco was not sure he had understood correctly, and repeated:

"You did not love me?"

"Yes, yes! So dearly!"

His spirits began to revive, and a shade of severity returned to his voice.

"Then," said he, "why did you not give me your whole soul?"

She was silent. She had been trying in vain to resume her work, but her hands trembled.

And now this terrible question! Should she answer or not? By answering, by revealing for the first time things that lay buried at the bottom of her heart, she would only be widening the painful gap between them; but could she be dishonest? She was silent so long that at last Franco said: "You will not speak?" Then she mustered all her strength and spoke.

"It is true, my soul has never been wholly yours." She trembled as she spoke the words, and Franco held his breath.

"I have always felt myself different from you, separated from you," Luisa continued, "in that sentiment which should govern all others. You hold the religious views my mother held. Religion was to my mother, as it is to you, a union of certain beliefs, ceremonies, and precepts, inspired and governed by the love of God. I have always shrunk from this conception of religion; no matter how hard I may have tried, I have never been able to feel this love of an invisible and incomprehensible Being; I have never been able to understand what good could come of forcing my reason to accept things I do not understand. Nevertheless I felt an ardent longing to direct my life towards what was good, according to a disinterested ideal. Moreover, by her words and example my mother had embued me with such a strong sense of my duty towards God and the Church, that my doubts caused me great pain, and I struggled hard against them. My mother was a saint. Every act of her life was in harmony with her faith. This also influenced me strongly. And then I knew that the greatest sorrow of her life had been my father's unbelief. I met you, loved you, married you, and I was strengthened in my resolve to become as you are in matters of religion, because I believed you were as my mother was. Then, little by little, I discovered you are not like my mother. Shall I go on?"

"Yes, to the end!"

"I discovered you were kindness itself, that you had the warmest, most generous heart in the world, but that your faith and your religious practices rendered these treasures almost useless. You did not strive! You were satisfied to love me, the child, Italy, your flowers, your music, the beauty of the lake and the mountains. In this you followed your heart. As to a higher ideal, it was sufficient for you to believe and to pray. Without this faith and without these prayers you would have given the fire that is in your soul to that which is surely true, which is surely just in this world, you would have felt the same need to be doing that I feel. You are well aware, are you not, what I could have wished you to be in certain things? For example, who feels patriotism more keenly than you do? Surely no one. Well, I could have wished to see you endeavour to serve your country seriously, and according to your strength. Now you are indeed going to Piedmont, but your principal reason for doing so is that we have hardly anything left to live upon."

Franco, frowning angrily, made an impatient gesture of protest. "If you wish it I will stop," Luisa said humbly.

"No, no. Go on! Let us have the whole of it! It will be better!"

He spoke so excitedly, so angrily, that Luisa was silent, and it was only after a second, "Go on!" that she continued.

"Without going to Piedmont there would have been enough to do here in Valsolda, in Val Porlezza, in Vall' Intelvi; what V. does on the Lake of Como, communicating with different people, keeping the right spirit alive, preparing all that must be prepared against the coming of war, if, indeed, it ever comes. I used to tell you so, but you would not be convinced, you saw so many difficulties in the way. This sluggishness fostered my repugnance to your conception of religion, and my tendency towards another conception. For I also felt myself intensely religious. The conception of religion which was gradually shaping itself clearly in my mind was, in substance, as follows: God really exists, and is powerful and wise as you believe, but He is perfectly indifferent to our adoration of Him, and prayers to Him. What He demands of us is what we may learn from the heart he has formed for each one of us, from the conscience He has given us, from the surroundings in which He has placed us. He wishes us to love all that is good, to hate all that is evil, to labour with all our strength, according to this love and this hatred, and to occupy ourselves exclusively with the things of this world, with things we can comprehend, that can be felt! Now you will understand what my idea really is of my duty, of our duty, in the face of all injustice, all tyranny!"

The further she went in this definition, this exposure of her own views, the greater was the relief she experienced in so doing, in being perfectly sincere at last, in frankly taking her stand on her own firm ground, and gradually all indignation against her husband died down within her, and in her heart there arose a tender pity for him.

"Indeed," she added, "if it had been only this trouble about your grandmother, do you think I would not rather have sacrificed my own opinion a thousand times, rather than grieve you? There was something else underlying that. Now you know all. Now I have laid my bare soul in your hands."

She read dull pain and hostile coldness on her husband's brow. She rose and moved towards him very slowly, with clasped hands, gazing at him, seeking his eyes, which avoided hers, and then halted on the way, repulsed by some higher power, for he had neither spoken nor made a gesture.

"Franco!" she entreated, "can you no longer love me?"

He did not answer.

"Franco! Franco!" she cried, stretching out her clasped hands. Then she started to move forward. He drew back with a rapid movement. Thus they stood in silence, face to face, for half a minute that seemed an eternity.

Franco's lips were pressed tight together, and she could hear his quick breathing. It was he who broke the silence.

"What you have said is exactly what you feel?"

"Yes!"

His hands were clutching the back of a chair. He shook it violently, saying bitterly: "Enough!" Luisa looked at him with inexpressible sadness, and murmured: "Enough?" He answered angrily, "Enough, enough, enough!" After a moment's silence he went on harshly: "I may be indolent, sluggish, selfish, anything you like, but I am not a boy to be soothed by a couple of caresses after all you have said to me. Enough, I tell you!"

"Oh, Franco! I know I have hurt you, but it has cost me so much, having to hurt you! Can't you take me kindly?"

"Ah, take you kindly, indeed! You wish to be free to inflict any wound, and then expect to be taken kindly! You are superior to every one else! You judge, you pass sentence, you alone understand what God wishes and what He does not wish? But this at least I will not have! Say whatever you like about me, but let those things you do not understand alone. You had better be working on your boot!"

He was determined to see only pride in his wife, while his own anger was born almost wholly of pride, of outraged self-esteem; it was an impure anger which darkened his brain and his heart. Both husband and wife would have acknowledged the justice of any other accusation sooner than that of pride.

She silently resumed her seat and tried to resume her work as well, but she handled the tools nervously without really knowing what she was doing. Franco went into the hall, banging the door behind him. It was very cold in the darkness of the hall which had been unoccupied since five o'clock, but Franco did not notice this. He threw himself upon the sofa, giving himself up entirely to his grief, to his anger, to an easy and violent mental defence of himself against his wife. As Luisa had rebelled against God and against himself—though indeed she had made a distinction—he now found it convenient to make common cause in his heart with that other mute and terrible One whom she had offended. At first astonishment, bitterness, rage, good reasons and bad, formed a whirling tempest in his brain. Then he found relief for his feelings in imagining Luisa's repentance, her prayers for forgiveness, and his own magnanimous answers.

Suddenly he heard Maria screaming and crying. He rose to go and see what had happened, but he was without a light. He waited a moment thinking Luisa would go out, but he did not hear her move, and the child was screaming louder than ever. Very softly he went towards the parlour, and looked in through the glass door.

Luisa had hidden her face in her arms, which were crossed on the table, and the light of the candle revealed only her beautiful dark hair. Franco felt his anger cooling, he opened the door, and called softly, his tone still gently severe: "Luisa, Maria is crying." Luisa raised her face, which was very pale, took the candle and went out without a word. Her husband followed her. They found the child sitting up in bed bathed in tears; a dream had frightened her. When she saw her father she stretched out her arms to him. "Not go away, papa, not go away!" she entreated, her voice big with tears. Franco pressed her in his arms, covered her with kisses, soothed her, and then put her back into her little bed. But she clung tightly to one of her father's hands, and could not be prevailed upon to let it go.

Luisa took another candle from the table and tried to light it, but her hands shook so she did not succeed. "Are you not coming to bed?" Franco asked. "No," she said, trembling more violently than ever. Franco thought he divined a supposition, a fear in her, and was offended. "Oh, you can come!" he said angrily. Luisa lighted her candle and said, more calmly, that she must work on the little shoes. She went out, and only on the threshold did she murmur: "Good-night." "Good-night," Franco answered coldly. For a moment he thought he would undress, but he presently relinquished his intention because his wife was still up, and at work. He spread back the coverlet and lay down in his clothes, on the side of the bed next to the child, that he might hold Maria's little hand—she had not yet gone to sleep—and put out the light.

What sweetness in the touch of that dear, tiny hand! Franco felt her the little child she was, his daughter, the innocent, loving baby, and then he imagined her a woman, her heart all his, united to him in every thought, every sentiment, and he fancied the little hand that pressed his was striving to compensate him for all that Luisa had made him suffer, and was saying: "Papa, you and I are united for ever!" Good God! he shuddered at the thought that Luisa might wish to bring her up in her own way of thinking, and that he, being far away, would be powerless to prevent this. He prayed to God, to the Virgin Mary, to the saintly grandmother Teresa, to his own mother, who, he was well aware, had been so pure and so pious. "Watch over my Maria, watch over her!" he murmured. He offered to sacrifice his whole being, his earthly happiness, his health, even life itself, that Maria might be saved from error.

"Papa," said the child, "a kiss."

He leaned out of bed, and, bending down, sought the dear little face in the dark, and told her to be quiet, to go to sleep. She was silent for a moment, and then called—

"Papa!"

"What is it?"

"I haven't got the mule under my pillow, you know, papa."

"No, no, dear, but now go to sleep."

"Yes, papa, I am going to sleep."

Once more she was silent for a moment and then said—

"Is mamma in bed, papa?"

"No, dear."

"Why not?" "Because she is making little shoes for you."

"Shall I wear shoes in heaven also, like great grandfather?"

"Hush! Go to sleep."

"Tell me a story, papa."

He tried, but he had neither Luisa's imagination nor her skill, and soon came to a stand-still. "Oh, papa!" said Maria, in a compassionate tone, "you don't know how to tell stories."

This was humiliating. "Listen, listen!" he answered, and began reciting a ballad by Carrer, always going back to the beginning after the first four lines, which were all he knew of it, his expression becoming ever more mysterious, his voice ever fainter, until it was only an inarticulate murmur, and thus at last Signorina MissipipÌ, lulled by the rhythm of the lines, passed with them into the world of dreams. When he heard her sleeping peacefully it seemed to him he was so cruel to leave her, he felt himself such a traitor, that he wavered in his resolve. He at once controlled himself, however.

The sweet dialogue with the child had greatly soothed him and raised his spirits. He began to be conscious of an imperative duty towards his wife which would henceforth be incumbent upon him. He must show himself a man, both in will and in deed, and this at the cost of any sacrifice. He must defend his faith against her by his works, by leaving home, by labour and suffering; and then—and then—if Almighty God should see fit to allow the cannon to roar for Italy, he must push ever to the front; and let the Austrian ball come, if it but teach her to weep and pray at last!

He remembered that he had not said his evening prayers. Poor Franco, he had never been able to say them in bed without dropping off to sleep before they were half finished. Feeling comparatively calm, and reflecting that it might perhaps be some time before Luisa came to bed, he feared he should go to sleep, and what would she say if she found him sleeping? He rose very softly and said his prayers; then he lighted the candle and sat down at the writing-desk, intending to read, but presently he fell asleep in his chair.

He was aroused by the beat of Veronica's wooden shoes on the stairs. Luisa was not yet come. Soon, however, she entered the room, and expressed no surprise at seeing Franco already up.

"It is four o'clock," she said. "If you intend to start, you have only half an hour's time." He must leave home at half-past four, to be sure of reaching Menaggio in time for the first boat coming from Colico. Instead of going to Como and thence to Milan as had been officially announced, Franco was to leave the steamer at Argegno and go up to S. Fedele, coming down into Switzerland by Val Mara or by Orimento and Monte Generoso. Franco signed to his wife to be quiet, that she might not disturb Maria. Then with another silent gesture he called her to him.

"I am going," he said. "Last night I was harsh with you. I beg you to forgive me. I should have answered you differently, even though I was in the right. You know my temperament. Forgive me! At least, do not let us part in anger."

"For my part I feel none," Luisa answered gently, as one who finds it easy to condescend, because he feels himself superior.

The final preparations were made in silence; breakfast was eaten in silence. Franco went to embrace the uncle to whom he had not said good-bye the night before; then he returned to the alcove-room alone, and kneeling beside the little bed, touched with his lips a tiny hand that was hanging over the edge. Upon returning to the parlour he found Luisa in shawl and hat, and asked if she were going to Porlezza also. Yes, she was going. Everything was ready. Luisa had the handbag, the valise was in the boat, and Ismaele was waiting on the stairs of the boathouse, one foot on the step, the other on the prow of the boat.

Veronica accompanied the travellers with a light, and wished her master a pleasant journey, with a crestfallen expression, for she had an inkling of the quarrel.

Two minutes later and the heavy boat, pushed forward by Ismaele's slow and steady "travelling strokes," was passing beneath the wall of the kitchen-garden. Franco put his head out of the little window. The rose-bushes, the caper-bushes, and the aloes hanging from the wall, passed slowly in the pale light of this starry but moonless night; then the orange-trees, the medlar, and the pine slipped by. Good-bye! Good-bye! They passed the cemetery, the Zocca di MainÈ, the narrow lane where he had so often walked with Maria, the Tavorell. Franco no longer watched. The light that usually burned in the little cabin was not there to-night, and he could not see his wife, who was silent.

"Are you going to Porlezza about those papers of the notary's, or simply to accompany me?" he said.

"This too!" Luisa murmured sadly. "I tried to be strictly honest with you, and you took offence. You ask my forgiveness, and now you say such things as this to me. I see that one cannot be faithful to truth without great, great suffering. But patience! I have chosen that path now. You will know soon whether I really came on your account or not. Do not humble me by making me say so now."

"Do not humble me!" Franco exclaimed. "I do not understand. We are indeed different in so many ways. My God, how different we are! You are always so completely mistress of yourself, you can always express your thoughts so exactly, they are always so clear, so cool."

Luisa murmured: "Yes, we are different." Neither spoke again until they reached Cressogno. When they were near the Marchesa's villa Luisa began to talk, and tried to keep the conversation alive until they should have left the villa behind. She asked him to repeat to her the itinerary that had been arranged for his journey, and suggested that he take only his handbag with him, for the valise would be a burden from Argegno on. She had already spoken to Ismaele about it, and he had promised to carry it to Lugano and send it on to Turin from that place. Meanwhile they had passed his grandmother's villa.

Now the sanctuary of Caravina came in sight. Twice during their courtship Franco and Luisa had met under those olive-trees, at the festa of Caravina, on the eighth of September. And now the dear little church in its grove of olives, beneath the awful rocks of the peak of Cressogno, was left behind also. Farewell, little church. Farewell to the past!

"Remember," Franco said, almost harshly, "that Maria is to say her prayers every morning and evening. It is an order I give you."

"I should have made her do so without this order," Luisa answered. "I know Maria does not belong to me alone."

Then they were silent all the way to Porlezza. Coming forth from the tranquil bay of Valsolda, seeing other valleys, other horizons, the lake just rippled by the first breath of dawn, the two travellers were drawn towards other thoughts, were led to think, without knowing why, of the uncertain future, which must bring great events, of which prophetic whisperings already circulated mysteriously through the heavy Austrian silence. Some one called out from the shore at Porlezza, and Ismaele began to row rapidly. It was the driver, Toni Pollin, who was shouting to them to make haste if they wished to catch the steamer at Menaggio.

The last moments had come. Franco let down the window in the little door, and looked at the man as if he were most anxious not to lose a word.

When they touched the shore he turned to his wife. "Are you going to get out also?" "If you wish it," she said. They alighted. A cabriolet stood ready on the shore. "By the way," said Luisa, "you will find some lunch in your bag." They embraced, exchanging a cold and rapid kiss in the presence of three or four curious bystanders "Try and make Maria forgive me for leaving her thus," said Franco, and they were his last words, for Toni Pollin was hurrying them: "Quick, quick!" The horse started off at a brisk trot, and the cabriolet rattled noisily, with a great snapping of the whip, through the dark and narrow street of Porlezza.

Franco was on board the Falcon between Campo and Argegno when he thought of his lunch. He opened the bag, and his heart gave a bound as he perceived a letter bearing as an address the words "For You" in his wife's hand. He tore it open eagerly, and read as follows—

"If you only knew what I am experiencing in my soul, how I am suffering, how sorely I am tempted to lay aside the little shoes—in the making of which I am far less skilful than you think—and to go to you, taking back all I have said, you would not be so harsh with me. I must have sinned deeply against truth, that the first steps I now take in following her are so difficult, so bitter.

"You think me proud, and I believed myself very sensitive, but now I feel that your humiliating words alone could not have kept me from hastening to you. What holds me back is a Voice within me, a Voice stronger than I am, which commands me to sacrifice everything save my consciousness of truth.

"Ah! I hope this sacrifice may bring its reward! I hope that one day there may be a perfect union between our two souls.

"I am going into the garden to gather for you that brave little rose we admired together the other day, the little rose that has challenged and conquered January. Do you remember how many obstacles lay between us the first time I received a flower from your hand? I was not yet in love with you, but you already dreamt of winning me. Now it is I who hope to win you!"

Franco came near letting the steamer pass Argegno without moving from his seat.