came to him. Had his misfortunes been
accidental--had they been any other than they were, the result of his
boyish folly and disobedience, he would have found them easier to bear;
as it was, the recollection that it was all his own fault drove him mad.

Before morning he had written a farewell note to Lady Charteris, saying
that he was leaving Florence at once, and would not be able to see her
again. He wrote to Valentine, but the few stiff words expressed little
of what he felt. He prayed her to forget the miserable scene that
would haunt him to his dying day; to pardon the insults that had driven
him nearly mad; to pardon the mad jealousy, the dishonor of Dora; to
forget him and all belonging to him. When Miss Charteris read the
letter she knew that all effort to restore peace would for a time be in
vain. She heard the day following that the clever young artist, Mr.
Earle, had left.

Countess Rosali loudly lamented Ronald's departure. It was so strange,
she said; the dark-eyed little wife and her children had gone home to
England, and the husband, after selling off his home, had gone with Mr.
Charles Standon into the interior of Africa. What was he going to do
there?

She lamented him for two days without ceasing, until Valentine was
tired of her many conjectures. He was missed in the brilliant salons
of Florence, but by none so much as by Valentine Charteris.

What the pretty, coquettish countess had said was true. After making
many plans and forming many resolutions, Ronald met Mr. Standon, who
was on the point of joining an exploring expedition in South Africa.
He gladly consented to accompany him. There was but little preparation
needed. Four days after the never-to-be-forgotten garden scene, Ronald
Earle left Italy and became a wanderer upon the face of the earth.

Chapter XVI

Valentine Charteris never told the secret. She listened to the wonder
and conjectures of all around her, but not even to her mother did she
hint what had passed. She pitied Ronald profoundly. She knew the
shock Dora had inflicted on his sensitive, honorable disposition. For
Dora herself she felt nothing but compassion. Her calm, serene nature
was incapable of such jealousies. Valentine could never be jealous or
mean, but she could understand the torture that had made shy, gentle
Dora both.

"Jealous of me, poor child!" said Valentine to herself. "Nothing but
ignorance can excuse her. As though I, with half Flo