and listened anxiously in the direction of his
wife's room, before reading the letter. Was
its arrival ominous of good or evil! That
was the thought in his heart, as he drew the
lamp near to him and looked at the first
lines.

"Am I wrong in writing to you ? "  (the
letter began abruptly) " If I am, you have
but to throw this little leaf of paper into the
fire, and to think no more of it, after it is
burnt up and gone. I can never reproach
you for treating my letter in that way; for
we are never likely to meet again.

"Why did I go away?—Only to save you
from the consequences of marrying a poor
girl who was not fit to become your wife. It
almost broke my heart to leave you; for I
had nothing to keep up my courage but the
remembrance that I was going away for your
sake. I had to think of that, morning and
night—to think of it always, or I am afraid
I should have faltered in my resolution, and
have gone back to Pisa. I longed so much at
first to see you once—more only to tell you
that Nanina was not heartless and ungrateful,
and that you might pity her and think
kindly of her, though you might love her no
longer.

"Only to tell you that! If I had been a
lady I might have told it to you in a letter;
but I had never learnt to write, and I could
not prevail on myself to get others to take
the pen for me. All I could do was to
learn secretly how to write with my own
hand. It was long, long work; but the
uppermost thought in my heart was always
the thought of justifying myself to you, and
that made me patient and persevering. I
learnt, at last, to write so as not to be
ashamed of myself, or to make you ashamed
of me. I began a letter—my first letter to
you—but I heard of your marriage before it
was done, and then I had to tear the paper
up, and put the pen down again.

"I had no right to come between you and
your wife even with so little a thing as a
letter I had no right to do anything but
hope and pray for your happiness. Are you
happy ? I am sure you ought to be; for how
can your wife help loving you?

"It is very hard for me to explain why I
have ventured on writing now, and yet I can't
think that I am doing wrong. I heard a few
days ago (for I have a friend at Pisa who
keeps me informed, by my own desire, of all
the pleasant changes in your life)—I heard of
your child being born; and I thought myself,
after that, justified at last in writing to you.
No letter from me, at such a time as this, can
rob your child's mother of so much as a
thought of yours that is due to her. Thus,
at least, it seems to me. I wish so well to
your child, that I cannot surely be doing
wrong in writing these lines.

"I have said already what I wanted to say
—what I have been longing to say for a whole
year past. I have told you why I left Pisa;
and have perhaps persuaded you that I have
gone through some suffering, and borne some
heart-aches for your sake. Have I more to
write ? Only a word or two to tell you that
I arn earning my bread, as I always wished
to earn it, quietly at home—at least, at what
I must call home now. I am living with
reputable people, and I want for nothing. . La
Biondella has grown very much, she would
hardly be obliged to get on your knee to kiss
you now; and she can plait her dinner-mats
faster and more neatly than ever. Our old
dog is with us, and has learnt two new tricks;
but you can't be expected to remember him,
although you were the only stranger I ever
saw him take kindly to at first.

"It is time I finished. If you have read
this letter through to the end, I am sure
you will excuse me, if I have written it
badly. There is no date to it, because I
feel that it is safest and best for both of
us, that you should know nothing of where
I am living. I bless you and pray for you,
and bid you affectionately farewell. If you
can think of me as a sister, think of me
sometimes still."

Fabio sighed bitterly while he read the
letter. " Why," he whispered to himself,
"why does it come at such a time as this,
when I cannot, dare not think of her? " As
he slowly folded the letter up, the tears came
into his eyes, and he half raised the paper to
his lips. At the same moment, some one
knocked at the door of the room. He started,
and felt himself changing colour guiltily, as
one of his servants entered.

"My mistress is awake," the man said,
with a very grave face, and a very
constrained manner; "and the gentlemen in
attendance desire me to say—"

He was interrupted, before he could give
his message, by one of the medical men, who
had followed him into the room.

"I wish I had better news to communicate,"
began the doctor gently.

"She is worse, then? " said Fabio, sinking
back into the chair from which he had risen
the moment before.

"She has awakened weaker instead of
stronger after her sleep," returned the doctor,
evasively. " I never like to give up all hope,
till the very last, but—"

"It is cruel not to be candid with him,"
interposed another voice—the voice of the
doctor from Florence, who had just entered
the room. "Strengthen yourself to bear the
worst," he continued, addressing himself to
Fabio. " She is dying. Can you compose
yourself enough to go to her bed-side!"

Pale and speechless, Fabio rose from his
chair, and made a sign in the affirmative. He
trembled so, that the doctor who had first
spoken was obliged to lead him out of the
room.

"Your mistress has some near relations in
Pisa, has she not? " said the doctor from