vermore. This poor prisoner listens, though his
heart will break. The happy music grows more and more faint--the husband
and wife are together now--the beautiful white day is around them--the
poor prisoner is left alone: there is no one even coming to bid him
farewell.

The sleeper moaned in his sleep, and stretched out his hand as if to
seek some other hand.

"No one--not even a word of good-bye!" he murmured.

But then the dream changed. And now it was a wild and windy day in the
blowing month of March, and the streams in this Buckinghamshire valley
were swollen, and the woods were bare. Who are these two who come into
the small and bleak church-yard? They are a mother and daughter; they
are all in black; and the face of the daughter is pale, and her eyes
filled with tears. Her face is white, and the flowers she carries are
white, and that is the white tombstone there in the corner--apart from
the others. See how she kneels down at the foot of the grave, and puts
the flowers lightly on the grass, and clasps her trembling hands, and
prays.

"_Natalie--my wife!_" he calls in his sleep.

And behold! the white tombstone has letters of fire written on it, and
the white flowers are changed to drops of blood, and the two black
figures have hurried away and disappeared. How the wind tears down this
wide valley, in which there is no sign of life. It is so sad to be left
alone.

Well, it was about eight o'clock when he was awakened by the entrance of
Waters. He jumped up, and looked around, haggard and bewildered. Then
his first thought was,

"A few more nights like this, and Zaccatelli will have little to fear."

He had his bath and breakfast; all the time he was forcing himself into
an indignant self-contempt. He held out his hand before him, expecting
to see it tremble: but no. This reassured him somewhat.

A little before eleven he was at the house in Hans Place. He was
immediately shown up-stairs. Natalie's mother was there to receive him,
she did not notice he looked tired.

"Natalie is coming to you this morning?" he said.

"Oh yes; why not? It gives her pleasure, it gives me joy. But I will not
keep the child always in the house; no, she must have her walk.
Yesterday, after you had left, we went to a very secluded place--a
church not far from here, and a cemetery behind."

"Oh, yes; I know," he said. "But you might have chosen a more cheerful
place for your walk."

"Any place is cheerful enough for me w