ed to come to a full and
sudden stop, and to be changed to others of a far different character.
This change took place when Girasole, after visiting the ladies, came,
with Mrs. Willoughby, to his room. As Dacres lay on the floor he heard
the voice of the Italian, and the faint, mournful, pleading tones of a
woman's voice, and, finally, he saw the flash of a light, and knew
that the Italian was coming to his room, and perhaps this woman also.
He held his breath in suspense. What did it mean? The tone of Girasole
was not the tone of love. The light drew nearer, and the footsteps
too--one a heavy footfall, the tread of a man; the other lighter, the
step of a woman. He waited almost breathless.

At last she appeared. There she was before him, and with the Italian;
but oh, how changed from that demon woman of his fancies, who was to
appear before him with his enemy and gloat over his sufferings! Was
there a trace of a fiend in that beautiful and gentle face? Was there
thought of joy or exultation over him in that noble and mournful lady,
whose melancholy grace and tearful eyes now riveted his gaze? Where
was the foul traitor who had done to death her husband and her friend?
Where was the miscreant who had sacrificed all to a guilty passion?
Not there; not with that face; not with those tears: to think that was
impossible--it was unholy. He might rave when he did not see her, but
now that his eyes beheld her those mad fancies were all dissipated.

There was only one thing there--a woman full of loveliness and grace,
in the very bloom of her life, overwhelmed with suffering which this
Italian was inflicting on her. Why? Could he indulge the unholy
thought that the Italian had cast her off, and supplied her place with
the younger beauty? Away with such a thought! It was not jealousy of
that younger lady that Dacres perceived; it was the cry of a loving,
yearning heart that clung to that other one, from whom the Italian had
violently severed her. There was no mistake as to the source of this
sorrow. Nothing was left to the imagination. Her own words told all.

Then the light was taken away, and the lady crouched upon the floor.
Dacres could no longer see her amidst that gloom; but he could hear
her; and every sob, and every sigh, and every moan went straight to
his heart and thrilled through every fibre of his being. He lay there
listening, and quivering thus as he listened with a very intensity of
sympathy that shut out from