On a sunny afternoon in March of the following year, Toni Rose sat alone on the slope of an Italian hill-side overlooking the blue Mediterranean, which lay stretched beneath her like a sheet of living turquoise.

The air was delightfully warm and still, and scented with the fresh breath of myriads of violets which dotted the short, soft turf here and there like a multitude of tiny purple stars. Everywhere the almond blossom was in its full beauty of rose and cream, and the sight of an orchard away on the hill-side, with the faint blue sky above the pink-and-white branches, and the bluer sea behind, gave to the beholder the effect of a delicate Japanese water-colour painting.

The Bay of Naples fully deserved its world-wide reputation for beauty on this bright spring afternoon. Across its waters rose hill upon hill, the sombre giant Vesuvius brooding like some dark monster over the ruined countryside at its base, the lovelier, more hopeful snow-crowned peaks behind rising like a fairy army beneath whose beneficent gaze the ogre was—for the time—vanquished and impotent.

The bay was full of craft, as usual. Big liners, tramp steamers, a grey battleship or two, looked scornfully down on the little Italian boats, some piled high with yellow fruit, others less imposing, little pleasure craft manned by youthful boatmen with swarthy brown faces and ears ornamented with huge golden rings.

Land and sea alike smiled in the glorious sunshine. It was a day on which life seemed a very sweet and desirable opportunity; but in Toni's face there was no hint of gladness, none of her former almost pagan delight in the beautiful out-of-door world around her.

Although her skin was delicately warmed and coloured by the genial Southern sun, the becoming tan could not hide the thinness of the once rounded cheeks, nor disguise the hopeless droop of the lips which had been used to smile so readily. Toni looked, indeed, the ghost of her former self as she sat gazing out over the Mediterranean; and it was very evident that whatever had been the result of her flight to those she had left behind, her own happiness had suffered a disastrous eclipse.

After all, her disappearance had been easily arranged. On that foggy night when she had fled from Leonard Dowson, terrified by the spectre of a future life which his words had evoked, she had run, without in the least realizing her direction, straight to the railway station; and the idea of London had at once presented itself to her mind. A train was just starting, and Toni hastily took a ticket and jumped into a carriage without giving herself time to think.

Arriving at the terminus she had a momentary indecision as to her next step. As she stood on the platform she felt herself to be desperately, hopelessly alone; and for one wild moment she wondered how Owen would receive her if she went back and flung herself on his mercy.

But something in her, perhaps the sturdy, independent blood of her Yorkshire ancestors, seemed to forbid such a course. She could not return, creep back to the shelter of the home she had abandoned; and even Toni's youthful optimism could not promise her a very hearty welcome when the truth of her flight should be known.

If only she had gone alone ... if there had been no man in the case to complicate matters and compromise the situation—in that first moment of despair Toni hated Leonard Dowson, loathed herself for imagining it would be possible to go away with him; and at the same time realized that whatever happened she would find it almost impossible to explain the man's introduction into the affair in any way save that which, were the story known, would be taken, perhaps naturally, for granted.

Suddenly the thought of Italy flashed into her brain, and with the thought came instant resolution.

She had still twelve pounds in her purse—more than enough to take her to Naples; and once there she could surely discover some friend of the bygone days to whom she might apply for advice as to her future maintenance.

In Italy she could live frugally, as the peasants lived; and all at once Toni felt a great nostalgia for the glowing South, with its sunshine and hot blue skies, its orange-groves, its languorous noons and warm, scented nights.

The Italian blood in her—the blood transmitted to her by her mother, spoke in its turn; and suddenly Toni felt that in that land of warmth and colour she could find the rest and peace for which her sorely-driven soul cried out....

And then the miracle happened.

Later that evening she was standing on the platform of another great station, waiting her turn to approach the booking-office where she might obtain her ticket to Italy—and home—when a wail in a thin foreign voice fell upon her ear, and she turned round to face a dark and agitated-looking young woman, neatly dressed, who was bewailing herself in the fluent Italian of the lower classes.

"What is it? Can I help you?"

Toni spoke impulsively, sorry for the young woman even in the midst of her own numbing grief; and the other turned round in astonishment at hearing her own tongue.

"Oh, Signorina!" She evidently took Toni for a compatriot. "Such a misfortune has overcome me—I do not know what is to be done. I am here with my charges"—two sleepy-looking English children stood yawning beside her—"on the way to Naples, and behold, the English Signora—the governess, you understand—who was to have come with us to deliver the children safely to their parents is at the last moment unable to come."

"But why can't she come?"

"Non lo so!" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "She sends me but a telegram to the waiting-room—an accident, illness—I know not—but she does not come, and I must go alone with the two little ones, who are both delicate and will be ill the whole journey through!"

A wild inspiration flashed into Toni's mind.

"You go to Naples?" she said. "I too wish to go, but hardly care to undertake the journey alone. May I then come with you and help you with the little ones?"

The Italian's quick mind grasped the idea at once; and she foresaw with delighted gratitude that the journey might be shorn of half its terrors if the plan were carried out.

She poured forth a stream of voluble explanations. She had already taken the tickets for the party; and she was certain that her employer, a wealthy English lady, would be only too grateful if the Signorina would accept the fare in return for her help in the matter. A carriage had been reserved for the party, and the whole journey might be taken in complete comfort and security, since this so fortunate meeting with a compatriot.

To Toni the idea came as a veritable boon. In her turn, she saw all the personal benefits of the plan; and, after all, since she could be of real, practical assistance, she saw no reason why she should scruple to avail herself of the Italian nurse's offer.

Five minutes later the affair was arranged. The foreigner, Luisa by name, was at first incredulous on hearing of her new comrade's mixed nationality, but she readily accepted such explanations as Toni gave her, and was quick to recognize the value of Toni's perfect English at the present juncture.

Toni's lack of luggage puzzled her a little, but Toni murmured something about a lost dressing-bag which satisfied the other woman; and when the long train steamed out of the station at last Toni was comfortably ensconced in a reserved first-class compartment, making friends with the two little girls with whom she was to travel.

This fact explains the non-success of all inquiries at the railway stations, or, later, on the boat. The authorities were on the look-out for a young Englishwoman journeying alone; and never associated the young Italian lady travelling, apparently, with her two children and a nurse, with the solitary girl for whom they searched.

Toni's fur coat was by no means a unique garment. There were plenty to be seen at this time of year; and in any case the girl, protected by her unassailable bodyguard, was able to pass under the eyes of the very men who were anxiously on the look-out for her.

The journey to which Luisa had looked forward with such apprehension passed off well enough. Toni was obliged to rouse herself from her own dejection to look after the children, who were both delicate and spoilt; but luckily they took an instant fancy to the travelling companion so strangely provided, and behaved with commendable good-temper throughout.

When at length the train ran into the railway station at Naples, Toni suddenly found herself faced with another problem. The nurse had taken her on trust, so to speak, and had been too grateful for her help to seek to probe into her private affairs; but now that she must face the mother of the pretty children, to whom she had become quite attached, Toni realized that she would have to give some more plausible explanation of her situation than that which had contented the impetuous Luisa.

She got out of the carriage at last, her arms full of the children's wraps and toys, with knees which shook under her at the thought of the ordeal to come; but one quick look into Mrs. Moody's frank and kindly face reassured her a little.

She soon found, moreover, that the lady was as ready to take her on trust as the maid had been. When she had heard Luisa's voluble explanation of the part Toni had played during the long and wearying journey, Mrs. Moody turned to Toni with an expression of real gratitude on her still pretty face.

"I really don't know how to thank you, Miss ... er ..." She hesitated, and Toni quickly supplied her with the first name she could think of, the name of her Italian mother's race. "Oh, but surely you are English?"

In her agitation Toni murmured something about an Italian father, not meaning to deceive, but too tired out and confused to pay much heed to her words; and Mrs. Moody put her hand kindly on the girl's arm.

"Well, English or not, you've been a god-send to Luisa and the chicks; so if you have no friends waiting for you at this moment, you must come home with me and let my husband thank you properly."

Somehow Toni found herself stepping into the beautifully-appointed motor-car which waited outside the station; and ten minutes later she was helped out of the motor and taken up a broad and palatial-looking staircase to the large and lofty flat inhabited by her new friends.

Friends indeed they proved to be. Without the slightest hesitation they accepted Toni's rather faltering story of an engagement in England which had proved unsatisfactory; and on learning that her intention in returning to Italy had been to look for another post, they looked at one another in a meaning silence which was explained later, when Mrs. Moody asked her quietly if she would care to undertake the post of governess-companion to the two small children with whom she was already on terms of friendship.

For a moment Toni hesitated. To stay on here, deceiving her employers, representing herself, falsely, as an unmarried woman, would be a poor return for their kindness and generosity; but to tell the truth was surely impossible. Yet she could not bring herself to shut the door which would open to her a new and honourable life in which she might find, if not happiness, at least content; and poor Toni was torn between conflicting emotions as she stood listening to her new friend's proposals.

Mrs. Moody, reading her indecision in her face, bade her think the matter over for a week while she remained with them as an honoured guest; and Toni did so, coming at last to the conclusion that, much as she longed to accept the post, to do so would not be fair to her prospective employers.

She refused, therefore, but with so genuine a regret that the refusal could not give offence. The Moodys, however, while recognizing the girl's claim to independence of judgment, in their turn asserted their claim to befriend her, and Toni was only too ready to accept their advice and assistance.

Hearing that it was of importance that she should set about making some money without delay, Mr. Moody secured for her a post as assistant-librarian and secretary in a big library belonging to an Italian friend of his own.

It was something of an irony that Toni's work should take her into an atmosphere that could not fail to remind her of her husband and his literary aspirations; and her heart used to contract pitifully within her sometimes when she entered the big, lofty, book-lined room, which was not unlike the stately library in the beautiful old house by the river where her married life had come to so tragic a close.

She owed the post to her proficiency in Italian and English rather than to any scholarly ability. To the end of her life Toni would never be bookish. She would always prefer living to reading about life; and it was fortunate that her work in this new library consisted largely of translating, roughly, from books in Italian and English, or in typing, from dictation, in either language.

She grew to like her employment in the quiet, mediÆval-looking room. Her employer, a gentle, sad-eyed elderly man with an invalid daughter, treated her with the utmost kindness; and if it had not been that every fibre in her being cried out incessantly for Owen, she might in time have been content.

Her first friends, the Moodys, had settled her in rooms with an old servant of their own who had married a little Italian bookseller, and were unremitting in their kindness to her; but Toni desired only to be alone in her leisure hours and refused many of the invitations which Mrs. Moody sent her from time to time.

So the days passed, quietly and tranquilly enough; and though to Toni it seemed that all the joy, all the happiness had fled from life, that the "sweet things" had lost their sweetness, the sunshine its glory, the flowers their perfume, she was not ungrateful for the peace which had come to her so unexpectedly.

Of her husband, of Greenriver, she never dared to think. She guessed, drearily, that Owen would feel bound, in humanity, to institute a search for his missing wife; but by a fortunate chance she had been able to cover her tracks and disappear effectually; and as the weeks glided by, and discovery was apparently as far off as ever, she began to feel, with a miserable certainty, that in time her husband would relinquish the search, and settle down to forget the frivolous, uneducated girl who had not known how to appreciate the honour he had done her in making her his wife.

To-day, this glorious spring day when the violet-scented air held a hint of summer's warmth in its breath, Toni was making holiday.

Her employer was from home, called to London by the hint of a wonderful book sale to be held there the following week; and Toni's time was her own for nearly eight days.

She had started early that morning on a pilgrimage to the little village where, long ago, she had passed the first happy years of her life; and had arrived, before noon, to find, as she had half-expected, that none of her old friends remained to give her welcome.

Old Fiammetta was dead, as was, of course, the kindly Padre who had befriended Roger Gibbs when the young widower had decided to stay on, with his little daughter, in the home which his Antonia had made so joyous. A few of the children with whom she had played lived here still, but they had grown into sturdy, swarthy young men and women who had long since forgotten the dark-eyed child whose Italian had been as fluent as their own; and though she wandered disconsolately through the straggling little village, she met with no single glance of recognition.

She did not know that some months previously urgent inquiries had been made at the tiny post-office as to whether a young lady had arrived in the village unexpectedly. It had struck Owen as possible that, in her madness, Toni might have returned to her childhood's home; but although, had she not met Luisa, Toni would probably have done so, that chance meeting at the station had turned her feet into another path, and naturally no one here knew anything of her whereabouts.

She had intended spending the whole of her holiday in the village; but the absence of any welcome depressed her sensitive spirit, and she decided to return to Naples in the evening and spend the days of her freedom in exploring more thoroughly the fascinating streets and byways of the picturesque and romantic town.

It was late when she arrived home, carrying her little valise; and old Janet, who in spite of her long residence in Italy was still uncompromisingly British, was surprised to see her lodger returning.

"I thought you were going to stay a few days," she said quite reproachfully. "Now a real good change would have been the very best thing for you, miss, and I'm right sorry to see you back."

"You're not very kind, Janet!" Toni smiled rather wearily, "I couldn't stay ... all my friends were dead and gone ... there were only ghosts left to welcome me, and I couldn't bear it!"

The old woman read the disappointment in the girl's tone and was sorry for her.

"Well, come along in, miss, and I'll bring you some supper right away. There's an omelette, and some lovely risotto I'm making for Pietro, and a glass or two of Chianti will soon hearten you up—though for my part I think a bottle of good English stout is worth all the thin wines in Italy!"

When, later, she bustled in again with some excellent coffee, the old woman brought a bundle of papers which had been left by Mrs. Moody earlier in the day. There were various English and American magazines, and a few weekly papers; and had doubtless been intended to lighten the loneliness of Toni's holiday.

She sat sipping her coffee and turning the pages rather listlessly. Somehow reading appealed to her less than ever nowadays. She was always so fully occupied with her own miserable thoughts, that the imaginative writings of other people could claim small share of her interest; but she dipped into the magazines as she sat alone, and tried to forget herself for an hour in the perusal of their pages.

Among the papers was a copy of the Daily Telegraph, sent to Mrs. Moody occasionally by a sister in London; and Toni was idly turning the clumsy sheets when a name she knew attracted her attention.

She scanned the paragraph hurriedly a little pulse beating in her temple as she read.

"We learn on good authority that the famous portrait-painter Mr. James Herrick, better known as Mr. Herrick Vyse, has accepted a commission to paint the two beautiful daughters of Lord and Lady Tregarthen at their historic home in Cornwall. The young subjects, who are twins, are only nine years of age, but are ranked among the loveliest of England's many beautiful children, and doubtless the artist will do their childish beauty full justice. Mr. Herrick has already left his picturesque bungalow on the Thames for Tregarthen House, where he will be the guest of Lord and Lady Tregarthen during the painting of the portrait."