d of answering the
question.

"I think she does. I am almost sure of it."

Kalmon was silent for a while.

"But Marcello," he said at last, "what of him?"

"He has always loved Aurora," the Contessa answered. "Do you blame him
so much for what he has done? Why do you blame some people so easily, my
dear friend, and others not at all? Do you realise what happened to him?
He was virtually taken out of the life he was leading, by a blow that
practically destroyed his memory, and of which the consequences
altogether destroyed his will for some time. He found himself saved and
at the same time loved--no, worshipped--by one of the most beautiful
women in the world. Never mind her birth! She has never looked at any
other man, before or since, and from what I have heard, she never will.
Ah, if all women were like her! Marcello, weak from illness, allowed
himself to be worshipped, and Corbario did the rest. I understand it
all. Do you blame him very much? I don't. With all your strength of
character, you would have done the same at his age! And having taken
what she offered, what could he do, when he grew up and came to himself,
and felt his will again? Could he cast her off, after all she had done
for him?"

"He could marry her," observed Kalmon. "I don't see why he should not,
after all."

"Marriage!" There was a little scornful sadness in Maddalena's voice.
"Marriage is always the solution! No, no, he is right not to marry her,
if he has ever thought of it. They would only make each other miserable
for the rest of their lives. Miserable, and perhaps faithless too. That
is what happens when men and women are not saints. Look at me!"

"You were never in that position. Others were to blame, who made you
marry when you were too young to have any will of your own."

"Blame no one," said the Contessa gravely. "I shall give Aurora Regina's
message, and if she is willing to go and see her, I shall bring her
to-morrow morning--to-night, if there is no time to be lost. The world
need never know. Go and tell Regina what I have said. It may comfort her
a little, poor thing."

"Indeed it will!"

Kalmon's brown eyes beamed with pleasure at the thought of taking the
kindly message to the dying girl. He rose to his feet at once.

"There is no one like you," he said, as he took her hand.

"It is nothing. It is what Marcello's mother would have done, and she
was my best friend. All I do is to take the responsibility upon myself,