ame which she had never been able to
pronounce. "Yes--that is it. That was the name of the Englishman. An
evil death on him and all his house! Stefanone says it always. I also
may say it once. It was he. He took our daughter. Stefanone went after
them, but they had the beast of the convent gardener. It was a good
beast, and they made it run. Stefanone heard of them all the way to the
sea, but the twenty-four hours had passed, and the war-ship was far out.
He could see it. Could he go to the war-ship? It had cannons. They would
have killed him. Then I should have had neither daughter nor husband. So
he came back."

The long habit of acting had made Gloria strong, but her hands shook on
the closed volume. She had known that her mother had been an Italian,
that they had left Italy suddenly and had been married on board an
English man-of-war by the captain, that same Walter Crowdie, a relative
of Dalrymple's, after whom Gloria and Griggs had named the child. More
than that Dalrymple had never been willing to tell her. She remembered,
too, that though she had once or twice begged him to take her to Tivoli
and Subiaco, he had refused rather abruptly. It was clear enough now.
Her mother had been this Annetta whom Dalrymple had stolen away in the
night.

And the wrinkled, leathery old hag, with her damp, coarse mouth, her skinny
hands, and her cunning, ignorant eyes, was her grandmother--Stefanone
was her grandfather--her mother had been a peasant, like them, beautified
by one of nature's mad miracles.

There could be no doubt about it. That was the truth, and it fell upon
her with its cruel, massive weight, striking her where many other truths
had struck her before this one, in her vanity.

She grasped the book tightly with both hands and set her teeth. After
that, she did not know what Nanna said, and the old woman, thinking
Gloria was not paying a proper attention to her remarks, pushed and
heaved the box across the room rather discontentedly. It would not go
under the bed, being too high, so she wedged it in between the foot of
the bedstead and the wall. There was just room for it there.

"Signora, if ever your one child leaves you without a word, you will
understand," said Nanna, a little offended at finding no sympathy.

"I understand too well," answered Gloria.

Then she suddenly realized what the woman wanted, and with great
self-control she held out her hand kindly. Nanna took it and smiled, and
pressed it in h