were many days when Ronald never went near his studio, and only
returned home late in the evening to leave early in the morning. He
was only human, this young hero who had sacrificed so much for love;
and there were times, after some brilliant fete or soiree, when the
remembrance of home, Dora, hard work, narrow means, would come to him
like a heavy weight or the shadow of a dark cloud.

Not that he loved her less--pretty, tender Dora; but there was not one
feeling or taste in common between them. Harder men would have tired
of her long before. They never cared to speak much of home, for Dora
noticed that Ronald was always sad after a letter from Lady Earle. The
time came when she hesitated to speak of her own parents, lest he
should remember much that she would have liked him to forget.

If any true friend had stepped in then, and warned them, life would
have been a different story for Ronald Earle and his wife.

Ronald's story became known in Florence. He was the son of a wealthy
English peer, who had offended his father by a "low" marriage; in time
he would succeed to the title. Hospitalities were lavished upon him,
the best houses in Florence were thrown open to him, and he was eagerly
welcomed there. When people met him continually unaccompanied by his
young wife they smiled significantly, and bright eyes grew soft with
pity. Poor, pretty Dora!

Ronald never knew how the long hours of his absence were spent by Dora.
She never looked sad or weary to him, he never saw any traces of tears,
yet Dora shed many. Through the long sunny hours and far into the
night she sat alone, thinking of the home she had left in far-off
England--where she had been loved and worshiped by her rough, homely,
honest father and a loving mother; thinking too, of Ralph, and his
pretty, quiet homestead in the green fields, where she would have been
honored as its mistress, where no fine ladies would have vexed her with
questions, and no one would have thought her ignorant or awkward;
thinking of all these things, yet loving Ronald none the less, except
that a certain kind of fear began to mingle with her love.

Gradually, slowly, but surely, the fascination of the gay and brilliant
society in which Ronald was so eagerly courted laid hold of him. He
did not sin willfully or consciously; little by little a distaste for
his own home and a weariness of Dora's society overcame him. He was
never unkind to her, for Ronald was a gentl