on, however, she entered the room, and
expressed no surprise at seeing Franco already up.

"It is four o'clock," she said. "If you intend to start, you have only
half an hour's time." He must leave home at half-past four, to be sure
of reaching Menaggio in time for the first boat coming from Colico.
Instead of going to Como and thence to Milan as had been officially
announced, Franco was to leave the steamer at Argegno and go up to S.
Fedele, coming down into Switzerland by Val Mara or by Orimento and
Monte Generoso.

Franco signed to his wife to be quiet, that she might not disturb Maria.
Then with another silent gesture he called her to him.

"I am going," he said. "Last night I was harsh with you. I beg you to
forgive me. I should have answered you differently, even though I was in
the right. You know my temperament. Forgive me! At least, do not let us
part in anger."

"For my part I feel none," Luisa answered gently, as one who finds it
easy to condescend, because he feels himself superior.

The final preparations were made in silence; breakfast was eaten in
silence. Franco went to embrace the uncle to whom he had not said
good-bye the night before; then he returned to the alcove-room alone,
and kneeling beside the little bed, touched with his lips a tiny hand
that was hanging over the edge. Upon returning to the parlour he found
Luisa in shawl and hat, and asked if she were going to Porlezza also.
Yes, she was going. Everything was ready. Luisa had the handbag, the
valise was in the boat, and Ismaele was waiting on the stairs of the
boathouse, one foot on the step, the other on the prow of the boat.

Veronica accompanied the travellers with a light, and wished her master
a pleasant journey, with a crestfallen expression, for she had an
inkling of the quarrel.

Two minutes later and the heavy boat, pushed forward by Ismaele's slow
and steady "travelling strokes," was passing beneath the wall of the
kitchen-garden. Franco put his head out of the little window. The
rose-bushes, the caper-bushes, and the aloes hanging from the wall,
passed slowly in the pale light of this starry but moonless night; then
the orange-trees, the medlar, and the pine slipped by. Good-bye!
Good-bye! They passed the cemetery, the _Zocca di Maine_, the narrow
lane where he had so often walked with Maria, the Tavorell. Franco no
longer watched. The light that usually burned in the little cabin was
not there to-night, and he could not se