very violence of his last
moments, the tenderness of his passionate appeal for forgiveness, spoke
for the honesty of his heart, even though his heart had never been honest
before.

She needed never to think again of pleasing him, of helping him, of
foregoing for his sake any intimacy with the world which she might
desire. But the thought brought no relief. He had become so much a part
of her life that she could not conceive of living without him, and she
would miss him at every turn. The new existence before her seemed dismal
and empty beyond all expression. She wondered vaguely what she should do
with her time. For one moment a strange longing came over her to return
to the dear old convent, to lay aside for ever her coronet and state, and
in a simple garb to do simple and good things to the honour of God.

She roused herself at last, and went to her own rooms, dragging her steps
slowly as though weighed down by a heavy burden. She entered the room
where he had died, and a cold shudder passed over her. The afternoon sun
was streaming through the window upon the writing table where yet lay the
unfinished invitation she had been writing, and upon the plants and the
rich ornaments, upon the heavy carpet--the very spot where he had
breathed his last word of love and died at her feet.

Upon that spot Corona d'Astrardente knelt down reverently and
prayed,--prayed that she might be forgiven for all her shortcomings to
the dear dead man; that she might have strength to bear her sorrow and to
honour his memory; above all, that his soul might rest in peace and find
forgiveness, and that he might know that she had been truly innocent--she
prayed for that too, for she had a dreadful doubt. But surely he knew all
now: how she had striven to be loyal, and how truly--yes, how truly--she
mourned his death.

At last she rose to her feet, and lingered still a moment, her hands
clasped as they had been in her prayer. Glancing down, something
glistened on the carpet. She stooped and picked it up. It was her
husband's sealring, engraven with the ancient arms of the Astrardente.
She looked long at the jewel, and then put it upon her finger.

"God give me grace to honour his memory as he would have me honour it,"
she said, solemnly.

Truly, she had deserved the love the poor old dandy had so deeply felt
for her.

CHAPTER XVII.

That night Giovanni insisted on going out. His wounds no longer pained
him, he said; there was no