appy, yet
I feel as if it would be treason for you to be happy without me. What an
illogical thing love is! But where Love reigns jealousy is always the
Prime Minister, and in order to banish my jealousy you must come back
immediately...."

Her pen stopped again. The artifice was too trivial, too palpable, and
he would certainly see through it. She tore up the sheet and began
afresh.

"My last point, dearest, is that I fear you are forgetting me in your
work. While thinking of the revolution you are making in Europe, you
forget the revolution you have already made in this poor little heart.
Of course I love your glory more than I love myself, yet I am afraid it
is taking you away from me, and will end by leading you up, up, up, out
of a woman's reach. Why didn't I give you my portrait to put in your
watch-case when you went away? Don't let this folly disgust you,
dearest. A woman is a foolish thing, isn't she? But if you don't want me
to make a torment of everything you will hasten back in time to...."

She threw down the pen and began to cry. Hadn't she promised him that,
come what would, her love for him should never stand in his way? In the
midst of her tears a little stab at her heart made her think of
something else, and she took up the pen again.

"My last point, dearest, is that I am ill, and very, very anxious to see
you soon. My health has been failing ever since you left Rome. Perhaps
the anxieties I have gone through have been partly the cause of this,
but I am sure that your absence is chiefly responsible, and that no
doctor and no medicine would be so good for me as one rush into your
arms. Therefore come and give me back all my health and happiness. Come,
I beg of you. Leave it to others to do your work abroad. Come at once
_before things have gone too far_; come, come, come!"

She hesitated, wanting to say, "Not that I am _very_ ill...." And then,
"You mustn't come if there is any risk to yourself...." And again, "I
would never forgive myself if...." But she crushed down her qualms,
sealed her letter, and sent the Garibaldian to post it.

Then she gathered up the entire body of David Rossi's letters, and
putting some light firewood into the stove she sat on the ground to burn
them. It was necessary to remove all evidence that could be used against
him in the event of a domiciliary visitation. One by one as the letters,
were passed into the fire she read parts of them, and some of the
passages seeme