pieces, and swore, to his face, that one
who could be so false to his love could be little relied on in his
friendship."'

'Who writes this, Fra Luke? Who knew these things so well?' cried the
woman.

'It is signed "E. W.," and dated from Ancona, something more than ten
years back. The remainder treats of money matters, and of names that are
new to us. Here is the postscript: "You are right in your estimate of
him--too right; still I am inclined to think that Kelly's influence has
worked more ill than all his misfortunes. They drink together all day,
and even his brother cannot see him without permission; and if you but
saw the man--coarse, low-minded, and ill-educated as he is--so unlikely
in every way to have gained this ascendency over one of cultivated taste
and refinement; but Kinloch said truly, 'What have your Royal
Highness's ancestors done, that God should have cursed you with such
companionship!' To what end, then, this new plan--this last attempt to
avert failure? I 'll go, if I must, but it will be only to expose myself
to the same impertinences as before."

'I wish I could make out his name, or even to whom it was addressed;
but it is only inscribed "G. H., care of Thomas Foster." Is that any one
coming, Mrs. Mary?''

'No, it's only the wind; it often sounds like voices moaning through
those old corridors,' said the woman sorrowfully. 'You'll keep that
letter safe, Fra Luke:'

'That I will, Mrs. Mary. I 'll put it now with the rest, in that old
iron box in the wall behind the chimney.'

'But if we should have to leave this?'

'Never fear, I 'll take care to have it where we can come at it.' He
paused for a second or so, and then said, 'Yes, you can't stay here any
longer; you must go at once too.'

'Let it be, then, to some spot where I can see him,' cried she eagerly.
'I 've borne the misery of this gloomy spot for years back, just because
that each day he passes near my door. Down the Capitoline, to the
old Forum, is their walk; and how my heart beats as I see the dark
procession winding slowly down the hill, till my eyes rest on him--my
own dear Gerald. How proudly he steps in all his poverty!--how sorrowful
in his youth! What would I not suffer to speak to him--to tell him that
I am the sister of his mother--that he is not all forgotten or forsaken,
but that through long days and nights I sit to think on him!'

'But you know this cannot be, as yet.'

'I know it--I know it I' cried she bitt