but she is lost to me. I received two letters
this morning: one from her, talking wildly of
the roaring and foaming sea that she overlooked
from her windows, hinting at despair and self-
destruction. The other was from Gertrude, to
tell me that her cousin was lost to me for ever.
Further than this I did not at first read—everything
seemed evident, Vittoria's devotion unto
death, and my necessary despair. But now I
find there is a very different interpretation.
Vittoria still lives, but as dead to me.
Over-persuaded by her father, she has agreed to
bestow her hand on another."

Angelo paused, overcome by his feelings ; and,
burying his face in his hands, sobbed like a
child. I did not try to quiet him. I let him
cry, and cried with him. It was the best
relief. When he was quite wearied I spoke to and
comforted him, brought him some warm tea, and
insisted on his going to bed.

Next morning I had removed the picture, put
it away in the chiffonier, and, by tacit consent,
we both from that day avoided her name. He
went back to his old habits and his teaching. I
did my best to make him forget the past and
enjoy the present.

So time passed. Winter came with its sleet
and snow; and December 23rd found a troop of
joyous boys crowding the railway omnibus, and
singing, "Domum, domum, dulce domum!" with
heart if not with harmony. And a fly stood
before our passage entrance, with a portmanteau
strapped to the top; while Signor Angelo
hurried down stairs, armed with a carpet-bag
and umbrella, and, holding out his hand to me
on the lowest step, said, "Good-by!" in a hearty
voice. I was holding my apron to my eyes, and
I called him back, and bade him not to forget
the sandwiches in his great-coat pocket, and the
medicine bottle full of wine and water; and to
mind and write to me from Germany. He was
going—home, as he said, for the holidays—for,
though Italian by parentage, he had been brought
up in Germany, and loved it best; and even his
late disappointment had not sufficed to cool the
feeling.

Mother and I spent a dull Christinas together;
hardly reminded of the season save by the yule-
cake at tea, and the church bells ringing at
daybreak. I put up the holly sprigs as I had ever
done, for custom's sake; and even carried a few
branches into the vacant parlour, putting some
bits behind the china shepherdesses, on the
window-sill, and the very nicest sprigs over
monsieur's portraits. The room looked very
dull without its occupant; and I stood looking
at the picture over the mantelpiece, till I met
its eye, and then I went away with a tear in
mine. What was that poor fellow doing in a land
of strangers? Did any one mend his linen when
it came in from the wash, and see it was well
aired ? Oh dear ! what would he do without me?

And now in my turn I watched for the post
in vain. The weeks went over, Mr. Clatterback's
academy was to reopen on Tuesday, the grammar
school the next day, and by the Monday post,
at last, came a letter for me! Pity me!

Monsieur Angelo returned home that evening
—but not alone. With him came Madame Angelo
Pagliardini the little fair-haired Cousin Gertrude,
who had written to tell about Vittoria's
infidelity.

From the parlour window I watched him help
her put of the fly with tender pride, and bring
her into the house; and I clasped my hands till
my nails ran into my fingers, and told myself
over and over again that I hated them both.
But I was obliged to go and meet them—
obliged to make all sorts of congratulations, and
give my hand when the signor introduced me as
his good Miss Patty, who would, he hoped, be
his wife's friend too. I did not raise my eyes to
madame's face, but I saw her hand as it lay in
mine; mine brown, and hard, and harsh, hers
soft and white as a lily, with pink palms like the
blush of a conch-shell. It was a great contrast,
and it made me more bitter. I thought that men
never looked beyond appearances, and moralised
a great deal about the worth of a gem being
irrespective of its setting.

But, before Spring had brought the fresh
flowers, I was fain to confess that earth had few
young people in it so fair and sweet as my
second lodger, sitting in the parlour window,
with the light falling on her long golden hair,
and her violet eyes watching the street-corner
for her husband's home-coming.

Poor little Gertrude! poor little darling!
with all her heart she loved that thoughtless,
selfish man—far more dearly than my calm
middle age had ever been able to love him in the
days when I believed him perfection. Now that
my eyes were once opened I saw him so
differently. I heard his occasional harsh answers
to her gentle words, I noticed his invincible
vanity, and I wondered how I had ever overlooked
it with that constant record in the sitting-room.

Self goes a long way with most men, but self
went beyond itself in his case. It demanded all
her love, and comfort, and thought as well. It
wore her life away with its continual rust. And
all the time she never seemed to see it; she
always thought whatever he said or did must be
right.

In strange gradation my feelings changed. By
Spring I loved Gertrude, by Summer I doubted
her husband, and with the Autumn harvest a
shadow had sprung up, I knew not how.
Gertrude had no great mind, no strength of
character. She was not fitted to cope with a wayward
and changeable nature. When she had given her
warm love and perfect trust she had given all ;
you had looked to the very bottom of her clear
heart. So Angelo took her first as a fresh, pure
flower, admired its loveliness and fragrance ;
then, with his old fickleness, let it fall away
from his grasp. He did not throw it away—he
only let it drop slowly, slowly to the ground.
And at the bottom of all this was Vittoria. Oh !
had I not reason to hate her name?

She was Angelo's first and only love. It was
in a moment of pique against her that he married
her pretty, gentle cousin; and when, by some
waywardness of fortune Vittoria's engagement