l count of his movements. Had
he been still writing during the summer for the newspaper which had sent
him out? Had there not been rumors of his being wounded--or attacked by
fever? Her memory, still vague and weak, struggled painfully with
memories it could not recapture.

The Italian paper of that morning--she had spelled it out for herself at
breakfast--had spoken of a defeat of the insurrectionary forces, and of
their withdrawal into the highlands of Bosnia. There would be a lull in
the fighting. Would he come home? And all this time had he been the mere
spectator and reporter, or fighting, himself? Her pulses leaped as she
thought of him leading down-trodden peasants against the Turk.

But she knew nothing. Surely during the last few months he had purposely
made a mystery of his doings and his whereabouts. The only sign of him
which seemed to have reached England had been that volume of poems--with
those hateful lines! Her lip quivered. She was like a weak child--unable
to bear the thought of anything hostile and unkind.

If he had already turned homeward? Perhaps he would come through Venice!
Anyway, he was not far off. The day before she and Margaret had made
their first visit to the Lido. And as Kitty stood fronting the Adriatic
waves, she had dreamed that somewhere, beyond the farther coast, were
those Bosnian mountains in which Geoffrey had passed the winter.

Then she started at her own thoughts, rose--loathing herself--drew down
her veil, and moved towards the door.

* * * * *

As she reached the leathern curtain which hung over the doorway, a lady
in front who was passing through held the curtain aside that Kitty might
follow. Kitty stepped into the street and looked up to say a mechanical
"Thank you."

But the word died on her lips. She gave a stifled cry, which was echoed
by the woman before her.

Both stood motionless, staring at each other.

Kitty recovered herself first.

"It's not my fault that we've met," she said, panting a little. "Don't
look at me so--so unkindly. I know you don't want to see me. Why--why
should we speak at all? I'm going away." And she turned with a gesture
of farewell.

Alice Wensleydale laid a detaining hand on Kitty's arm.

"No! stay a moment. You are in black. You look ill."

Kitty turned towards her. They had moved on instinctively into the
shelter of one of the narrow streets.

"My boy died--two months ago," she said, holding