gone that
would never come back.

"When all this trouble is over," he said at last, "you shall go back to
the little house in Trastevere, and it will be just as it was before."

She raised her head rather proudly, as she answered.

"If that could be, it would be now. You would have taken me in your arms
when he was gone, and you would have kissed my eyes and my hair, and we
should have been happy, just as it was before. But instead, you want to
comfort me, you want to be kind to me, you want to be just to me,
instead of loving me!"

"Regina! I do love you! I do indeed!"

He would have put his arms round her to draw her closer to him, in the
sudden longing to make her think that there was no change in his love,
but she quietly resisted him.

"You have been very good to me, dear," she said, "and I know you will
always be that, whatever comes. And I am always yours, dear, and you are
the master, whenever you choose to come and see me. For I care for
nothing that God has made, except you. But it will never be just as it
used to be."

"It shall!" Marcello tried to put conviction into the words. "It shall!
It shall!"

"It cannot, my heart," she answered. "I used to say that when this came,
I would go away. But I will not do that, unless you bid me to, for I
think you would be sorry, and I should be giving you more pain, and you
have enough. Only leave me a little while alone, dear, for I am very
tired, and it is growing late."

He took her hands and kissed them one after the other, and looked into
her face. His own was very weary.

"Promise me that I shall find you here to-morrow," he said.

"You shall find me," she answered softly.

They parted so, and he left her alone, in the dark, for the glow of the
sunset had faded and the early November evening was closing in.

Old Teresa came and brought a lamp, and drew the curtains, and gave her
a message from Kalmon. If she needed anything she was to send for him,
and he would come at once. She thanked Teresa. It was very kind of the
Professor, but she needed nothing. Not even a fire; no, she hardly ever
felt cold. Teresa brought something to eat, and set the little table for
her. She was not hungry, and she was glad when the good soul was gone.

She could open the windows when she was alone, and look out into the
silent street. There was moonlight now, and it fell across the walls and
trees of the Villa Aurora upon her face. It was a young moon, that would
set be