eadmill? But there was no way out of life
now; there was no escape, as there was also no prospect of relief, from
care and anxiety. There was no reason why Giovanni should go away--no
reason either why Corona should ever love him less. She belonged to a
class of women, if there are enough of them to be called a class, who,
where love is concerned, can feel but one impression, which becomes in
their hearts the distinctive seal and mark of their lives, for good or
for evil. Corona was indeed so loyal and good a woman, that the strong
pressure of her love could not abase her nobility, nor put untruth where
all was so true; but the sign of her love for Giovanni was upon her for
ever. The vacant place in her heart had been filled, and filled wholly;
the bulwark she had reared against the love of man was broken down and
swept away, and the waters flowed softly over its place and remembered it
not. She would never be the same woman again, and it was bitter to her to
feel it: for ever the face of Giovanni would haunt her waking hours and
visit her dreams unbidden,--a perpetual reproach to her, a perpetual
memory of the most desperate struggle of her life, and more than a
memory--the undying present of an unchanging love.

She was quite sure of herself in future, as she also trusted sincerely in
Giovanni's promise. There should be no moment of weakness, no word should
ever fall from her lips to tempt him to a fresh outbreak of passionate
words and acts; her life should be measured in the future by the account
of the dangers past, and there should be no instant of unguarded conduct,
no hour wherein even to herself she would say it was sweet to love and to
be loved. It was indeed not sweet, but bitter as death itself, to feel
that weight at her heart, that constant toiling effort in her mind to
keep down the passion in her breast. But Corona had sacrificed much; she
would sacrifice this also; she would get strength by her prayers and
courage from her high pride, and she would smile to all the world as she
had never smiled before. She could trust herself, for she was doing the
right and trampling upon the wrong. But the suffering would be none the
less for all her pride; there was no concealing it--it would be horrible.
To meet him daily in the world, to speak to him and to hear his voice,
perhaps to touch his hand, and all the while to smile coldly, and to be
still and for ever above suspicion, while her own burning consciousness
a