e it
vexes Madame la Vicaire; but of course it is very foolish."

I was silent. I thought what a curse it was--this necessity of loving.
Even the poison of it must find its way into the hearts of
children--young things shut within the walls of a secluded convent, and
guarded by the conscientious care of holy women.

"And the nuns?" I said, uttering half my thoughts aloud. "How do they
manage without love or romance?"

A wicked little smile, brilliant and disdainful, glittered in her eyes.

"DO they always manage without love or romance?" she asked, half
indolently. "What of Abelard and Heloise, or Fra Lippi?"

Roused by something in her tone, I caught her round the waist, and held
her firmly while I said, with some sternness:

"And you--is it possible that YOU have sympathy with, or find amusement
in, the contemplation of illicit and dishonorable passion--tell me?"

She recollected herself in time; her white eyelids drooped demurely.

"Not I!" she answered, with a grave and virtuous air; "how can you
think so? There is nothing to my mind so horrible as deceit; no good
ever comes of it."

I loosened her from my embrace.

"You are right," I said, calmly; "I am glad your instincts are so
correct! I have always hated lies."

"So have I!" she declared, earnestly, with a frank and open look; "I
have often wondered why people tell them. They are so sure to be found
out!"

I bit my lips hard to shut in the burning accusations that my tongue
longed to utter. Why should I damn the actress or the play before the
curtain was ready to fall on both? I changed the subject of converse.

"How long do you propose remaining here in retreat?" I asked. "There is
nothing now to prevent your returning to Naples."

She pondered for some minutes before replying, then she said:

"I told the superioress I came here for a week. I had better stay till
that time is expired. Not longer, because as Guido is really dead, my
presence is actually necessary in the city."

"Indeed! May I ask why?"

She laughed a little consciously.

"Simply to prove his last will and testament," she replied. "Before he
left for Rome, he gave it into my keeping."

A light flashed on my mind.

"And its contents?" I inquired.

"Its contents make ME the owner of everything he died possessed of!"
she said, with an air of quiet yet malicious triumph.

Unhappy Guido! What trust he had reposed in this vile, self-interested,
heartless woman! He had loved