"I loved you. I love you. Listen! Do
you think you can pray?"

"O-h-h-h! I'm afraid! But if you say
—if you say it—I will try."

He uttered a short prayer.

"Do you forgive all those who have done
you wrong?"

"Forgive! I am very sorry. I am
sorry. I hope they will forgive me. Yes:
I forgive."

"My darling, let me kiss you. You are
not in pain?"

"N-no. It is so dark now! That old
yew-tree shades the window too much. But
we shall go away where there is more
light, shan't we? We won't stay here."

"We will go where there is more light,
my treasure. Lean your dear head on my
arm. So. You are not frightened now?"

"Not frightened now; tired—so tired!
How dark the yew-tree makes the window!
Ah!"

She gave a long quivering sigh, and
dropped her head upon his hand.

When they came to see if the sufferer
could be spoken to, they found him standing
rigid with her fingers clasped in his.
He raised his hand to warn them to be
silent as they entered.

"She must not be disturbed!" he
whispered.

"Disturbed!" echoed the physician,
advancing hastily. "She will never be
disturbed more. My dear sir, you must
compose yourself. I feel for your grief. You
were evidently much attached to the
unfortunate lady. But there is no more to
be done—she is dead!"

* * * * * *

Several years later there arrived in Leghorn
from the United States, an Italian—a
Sicilian he called himself—who was
supposed by those who understood such
matters to be mixed up with certain
political movements of a republican tendency
in the South. He was an agent of Mazzini,
said one. He was a rich adventurer who
had been a filibuster, said another. He
was a mere chevalier d'industrie, declared
a third, and the speaker remembered his
face in more than one capital of Europe.
Doubtless he had been attracted to the
neighbourhood of Florence by its recent
elevation to the rank of a metropolis. Or
it might be that he had made New York
too hot to hold him.

One night there was a disturbance at a
low café in Leghorn near the port,
frequented chiefly by Greek sailors. A man
was stabbed to the heart, and his assassin,
a certain Greek of infamous character, was
condemned to the galleys for life.

Of the murdered man little was known.
The landlord of the café deposed that he
had entered his house together with the
Greek; the latter seeming more boastfully
insolent and elated than was his wont,
that he (the landlord) perceiving that the
stranger was of a different class to the
generality of his customers, was induced
by curiosity to pay some attention to his
conversation (in other words, to listen at
the door of the miserable room occupied
by the Greek), that he had heard the two
men quarrelling, and the Greek especially
insisting on a large sum of money,
reiterating over and over again that twenty
thousand francs was a cheap price to let
him off at. He supposed there had been a
struggle, for he had soon heard a scuffling
noise, and the voice of the Greek crying
out that he should not serve him as he had
served his wife! He had got assistance,
and broken open the door. The stranger
was dead: stabbed to the heart. Che
vuole? Pazienza! the Greek had tried to
escape by the window, but was too great
a coward to jump. So they caught him.
That was all he knew. Ecco!

The murdered man was known in
Leghorn as Cesare Cesarini. But there was
more than one distinguished noble who
could have given a different name to him.
But they never thought of doing so. The
man was dead. There had been sundry
unpleasant circumstances connected with
his history. And would it not have been
exceedingly inconvenable to stir up such
disagreeable recollections, to the annoyance
of a really illustrious Neapolitan
family, who had become quite the leaders
of society since their influx of wealth from
the sale of some property to an English
company that afterwards went to smash?

So Cesare de' Barletti sleeps in a pauper's
grave, and his own people know his name
no more.

Maud was not told of Veronica's tragic
fate until some weeks after her marriage,
her husband feeling that it would cast a
deep gloom over the early brightness of
their wedded life. Her grief, when she
knew the truth, was sincere and intense.
And her only consolation was—as she
often said to the poor surgeon—to know
that her dear girl had died with his loving
hand in hers, and not been quite lonely
and abandoned at the last.

The vicar's affliction was more
demonstrative, but briefer than Maud's. He
soon had troubles enough in the present to