air which could not offer any difficulties provided
that one were what she meant by "good"--that is, honest in word and
deed, and scrupulous in doing thoroughly and with right intention those
things which her religion required of her, but in which only she herself
could judge of her own sincerity.

Of late, however, she had felt that there was something very wrong in
all her recent life. The certainty of it dawned by degrees, and then
burst upon her suddenly one day when she was with Reanda.

She had long ago noticed the change in his manner, the harassed look,
and the sad ring in his voice, and for a time his suffering was her
sorrow, and there was a painful pleasure in being able to feel for him
with all her heart. He had gone through a phase which had lasted many
months, and the change was great between his former and his present
self. He had suffered, but indifference was creeping upon him. It was
clear enough. Nothing interested him but his art, and perhaps her own
conversation, though even that seemed doubtful to her.

They were alone together on a winter's afternoon in the great hall. The
work was almost done, and they had been talking of the more mechanical
decorations, and of the style of the furniture.

"It is a big place," said Francesca, "but I mean to fill it. I like
large rooms, and when it is finished, I will take up my quarters here,
and call it my boudoir."

She smiled at the idea. The hall was at least fifty feet long by thirty
wide.

"All the women I know have wretched little sitting-rooms in which they
can hardly turn round," she said. "I will have all the space I like, and
all the air and all the light. Besides, I shall always have the dear
Cupid and Psyche, to remind me of you."

She spoke the last words with the simplicity of absolute innocence.

"And me?" he asked, as innocently and simply as she. "What will you do
with me?"

"Whatever you like," she said, taking it quite for granted, as he did,
that he was to work for her all his life. "You can have a studio in the
house, just as it used to be, if you please. And you can paint the great
canvas for the ceiling of the dining-room. Or shall I restore the old
chapel? Which should you rather do--oil-painting, or fresco?"

"You would not want the altar piece which I should paint," he said, with
sudden sadness.

"Santa Francesca?" she asked. "It would have to be Santa Francesca. The
chapel is dedicated to her. You could make a beautiful pi