ame time her own murdered love
cried out within her, and in the hot despair of youth she told herself
that life was as much finished for her as for this tired saint--this
woman of forty--who had borne since her babyhood the burdens of
the poor.

CHAPTER XVII

The Whitsuntide recess passed--for the wanderers in Italy--in a glorious
prodigality of sun, a rushing of bud and leaf to "feed in air," a
twittering of birds, a splendor of warm nights, which for once indorsed
the traditional rhapsodies of the poets. The little party of friends
which had met at Assisi moved on together to Siena and Perugia, except
for Marion Vincent and Frobisher. They quietly bade farewell, and went
their way.

When Marion kissed Diana at parting, she said, with emphasis:

"Now, remember!--you are not to come to London! You are not to go to
work in the East End. I forbid it! You are to go home--and look
lovely--and be happy!"

Diana's eyes gazed wistfully into hers.

"I am afraid--I hadn't thought lately of coming to London," she
murmured. "I suppose--I'm a coward. And just now I should be no good
to anybody."

"All right. I don't care for your reasons--so long as you go home--and
don't uproot."

Marion held her close. She had heard all the girl's story, had shown her
the most tender sympathy. And on this strange wedding journey of hers
she knew that she carried with her Diana's awed love and yearning
remembrance.

But now she was eager to be gone--to be alone again with her best
friend, in this breathing-space that remained to them.

So Diana saw them off--the shabby, handsome man, with his lean, proud,
sincere face, and the woman, so frail and white, yet so indomitable.
They carried various bags and parcels, mostly tied up with string, which
represented all their luggage; they travelled with the peasants,
fraternizing with them where they could; and it was useless, as Diana
saw, to press luxuries on either of them. Many heads turned to look at
them, in the streets or on the railway platform. There was something
tragic in their aspect; yet not a trace of abjectness; nothing that
asked for pity. When Diana last caught sight of them, Marion had a
_contadino's_ child on her knee, in the corner of a third-class
carriage, and Frobisher opposite--he spoke a fluent Italian--was
laughing and jesting with the father. Marion, smiling, waved her hand,
and the train bore them away.

* * * * *

The oth