ved with those long, deep sighs which are the
finishing chords of the Sonata Hysteria.

"You are better, I trust?" continued the nun, without any sympathy in
her monotonous accents, and addressing her with some reserve. "You have
greatly alarmed the Count Oliva."

"I am sorry--" began Nina, feebly.

I hastened to her side.

"Pray do not speak of it!" I urged, forcing something like a lover's
ardor into my voice. "I regret beyond measure that it is my misfortune
to have hands like those of your late husband! I assure you I am quite
miserable about it. Can you forgive me?"

She was recovering quickly, and she was evidently conscious that she
had behaved somewhat foolishly. She smiled a weak pale smile; but she
looked very scared, worn and ill. She rose from her chair slowly and
languidly.

"I think I will go to my room," she said, not regarding Mere
Marguerite, who had withdrawn to a little distance, and who stood
rigidly erect, immovably featured, with her silver crucifix glittering
coldly on her still breast.

"Good-bye, Cesare! Please forget my stupidity, and write to me from
Avellino."

I took her outstretched hand, and bowing over it, touched it gently
with my lips. She turned toward the door, when suddenly a mischievous
idea seemed to enter her mind. She looked at Madame la Vicaire and then
came back to me.

"Addio, amor mio!" she said, with a sort of rapturous emphasis, and
throwing her arms round my neck she kissed me almost passionately.

Then she glanced maliciously at the nun, who had lowered her eyes till
they appeared fast shut, and breaking into a low peal of indolently
amused laughter, waved her hand to me, and left the room.

I was somewhat confused. The suddenness and warmth of her caress had
been, I knew, a mere monkeyish trick, designed to vex the religious
scruples of Mere Marguerite. I knew not what to say to the stately
woman who remained confronting me with downcast eyes and lips that
moved dumbly as though in prayer. As the door closed after my wife's
retreating figure, the nun looked up; there was a slight flush on her
pallid cheeks, and to my astonishment, tears glittered on her dark
lashes.

"Madame," I began, earnestly, "I assure you--"

"Say nothing, signor," she interrupted me with a slight deprecatory
gesture; "it is quite unnecessary. To mock a religieuse is a common
amusement with young girls and women of the world. I am accustomed to
it, though I feel its cruelty more th