ust not go alone," she said, and made a movement towards him with
her hands half extended. It was just such a movement as you will see a
mother make towards a child that has not quite learned to walk and is
in danger of falling. I could see the maternal instinct beaming in her
face. The beautiful girl beside this grizzled and prematurely aged man
was motherly all over, and it was a lovely and a touching thing to see.
The count saw her meaning in a second, and drew back from her with a
melancholy and affectionate smile, holding out both hands against her.

"I must go alone," he said.

"No, no!" cried Violet, taking both his outstretched hands in hers, and
bending over him with a look of infinite protection. "My poor dear, have
you not suffered enough, and run dangers enough already? I could not
bear to be away from you." He was about to speak, but she closed his
lips gently with the palm of her hand. "I have not been your daughter
long," she said, with a little catch in her voice which took me at the
throat and made my heart ache with tenderness and pity for her. "I can
give you up, dear, when the time comes, but not an hour before."

"Should I not be happy, Fyffe?" asked the count, turning to me with
tears in his eyes. "No, no, dearest, you will wait in England. I shall
leave you in safety, for I will take nothing with me--no, not a thought,
if I can help it, which would make me a coward for Italy."

"I can give you up when the time comes," she repeated, simply, "but not
now. I will not ask you to take me into any danger. I don't think," she
went on, striving to make something of a jest of it, and to hide the
deeper feeling which controlled her so strongly--"I don't think that I
am fond of danger or that I should like it at all; but there is no real
reason why I should not be with you just at first."

"Aye, yes," cried the count, "there is every reason. I do not know where
I may have to go. I do not know how I am to live--to travel--with what
associates I must combine. My dear child, you must know the truth; my
love must venture to speak it. You would be a drag upon every step, and
with you I should not dare to face a single peril. I must go alone; I
know the hardship, but that is the task of women. They wait at home and
suffer, while the man goes out to enjoy adventure and excitement. It
was your mother's fortune, my child, and you inherit it. She was all
English, and yet she endured it for my sake. You are at least