d then I had to tear the paper
up, and put the pen down again.

"I had no right to come between you and your wife, even with so little
a thing as a letter; I had no right to do anything but hope and pray for
your happiness. Are you happy? I am sure you ought to be; for how can
your wife help loving you?

"It is very hard for me to explain why I have ventured on writing now,
and yet I can't think that I am doing wrong. I heard a few days ago (for
I have a friend at Pisa who keeps me informed, by my own desire, of all
the pleasant changes in your life)--I heard of your child being born;
and I thought myself, after that, justified at last in writing to you.
No letter from me, at such a time as this, can rob your child's mother
of so much as a thought of yours that is due to her. Thus, at least, it
seems to me. I wish so well to your child, that I cannot surely be doing
wrong in writing these lines.

"I have said already what I wanted to say--what I have been longing to
say for a whole year past. I have told you why I left Pisa; and have,
perhaps, persuaded you that I have gone through some suffering, and
borne some heart-aches for your sake. Have I more to write? Only a word
or two, to tell you that I am earning my bread, as I always wished to
earn it, quietly at home--at least, at what I must call home now. I am
living with reputable people, and I want for nothing. La Biondella has
grown very much; she would hardly be obliged to get on your knee to kiss
you now; and she can plait her dinner-mats faster and more neatly than
ever. Our old dog is with us, and has learned two new tricks; but you
can't be expected to remember him, although you were the only stranger I
ever saw him take kindly to at first.

"It is time I finished. If you have read this letter through to the end,
I am sure you will excuse me if I have written it badly. There is no
date to it, because I feel that it is safest and best for both of us
that you should know nothing of where I am living. I bless you and pray
for you, and bid you affectionately farewell. If you can think of me as
a sister, think of me sometimes still."

Fabio sighed bitterly while he read the letter. "Why," he whispered to
himself, "why does it come at such a time as this, when I cannot dare
not think of her?" As he slowly folded the letter up the tears came into
his eyes, and he half raised the paper to his lips. At the same moment,
some one knocked at the door of the room. He st