and tears of those who
believe them."

"But there is love in the world, somewhere," said Francesca, gently.

"Yes--and in hell! But not in heaven--where you will be."

Francesca sighed unconsciously, and looked long away towards the great
windows at the end of the hall. Reanda gathered up his palette and
brushes with a steadier hand. His anger had not spent itself, but it
made him suddenly strong, and the outburst had relieved him, though it
was certain that it would be followed by a reaction of profound
despondency.

All at once he came close to Francesca. She looked up, half startled by
his sudden movement.

"At least it is true--this one thing," he said. "I can count upon you."

"Yes. You can count upon me," she answered, gazing into his eyes.

He did not move. The one hand held his palette, the other hung free by
his side. All at once she took it in hers, still looking up into his
eyes.

"I am very fond of you," she said earnestly. "You can count upon me as
long as we two live."

"God bless you," he said, more quietly than he had spoken yet, and his
hand pressed hers a little.

There could be no harm in saying as much as that, she thought, when it
was so true and so simply said. It was all she could ever say to him, or
to herself, and there was no reason why she should not say it. He would
not misunderstand her. No man could have mistaken the innocence that was
the life and light of her clear eyes. She was glad she had said it, and
she was glad long afterwards that she had said it on that day, quietly,
when no one could hear them in the great still hall.

CHAPTER XXVII.

REANDA went home that evening in a very disturbed state of mind. He had
been better so long as he had not given vent to what he felt; for, as
with many southern men of excitable temper and weak nerves, his thoughts
about himself, as distinguished from his pursuits, did not take positive
shape in his mind until he had expressed them in words. Amongst the
Latin races the phrase, 'he cannot think without speaking,' has more
truth as applied to some individuals than the Anglo-Saxon can easily
understand.

For many months the artist had been most unhappy. His silence concerning
his grief had been almost exemplary, and had been broken only now and
then by a hasty exclamation of annoyance when Gloria's behaviour had
irritated him beyond measure. He was the gentlest of men; and even when
he had lost his temper with her, he had neve