"

"Poor woman! She has been through a great deal."

Her voice was quite genuine now. And Artois said to himself that the
faint suspicion he had had was ill-founded.

"Do you know anything about her?"

"Oh yes. I had a talk with Ruffo the other night. And he told me several
things."

Each time Hermione mentioned Ruffo's name it seemed to Artois that her
voice softened, almost that she gave the word a caress. He longed to ask
her something, but he was afraid to.

He would try not to interfere with Fate. But he would not hasten its
coming--if it were coming. And he knew nothing. Perhaps the anxious
suspicion which had taken up its abode in his mind, and which,
without definite reason, seemed gradually changing into conviction
was erroneous. Perhaps some day he would laugh at himself, and say to
himself, "I was mad to dream of such a thing."

"Those women often have a bad time," he said.

"Few women do not, I sometimes think."

He said nothing, and she went on rather hastily, as if wishing to cover
her last words.

"Ruffo told me something that I did not know about Peppina. His
step-father was the man who cut that cross on Peppina's face."

"Perdio!" said Artois.

He used the Italian exclamation at that moment quite naturally. Suddenly
he wished more than ever before that Hermione had not taken Peppina to
live on the island.

"Hermione," he said, "I wish you had not Peppina here."

"Still because of Vere?" she said.

And now she was looking at him steadily.

"I feel that she comes from another world, that she had better keep away
from yours. I feel as if misfortune attended her."

"It is odd. Even the servants say she has the evil eye. But, if she has,
it is too late now. Peppina has looked upon us all."

"Perhaps that old Eastern was right." Artois could not help saying it.
"Perhaps all that is to be is ordained long beforehand. Do you think
that, Hermione?"

"I have sometimes thought it, when I have been depressed. I have
sometimes said to myself, 'E il destino!'"

She remembered at that moment her feeling on the day when she returned
from the expedition with Vere to Capri--that perhaps she had returned
to the island to confront some grievous fate. Had Artois such a thought,
such a prevision? Suddenly she felt frightened, like a child when, at
night, it passes the open door of a room that is dark.

She moved and got up from her chair. Like the child, when it rushes on
and away, she felt in her