in that letter why you came to London, and asked me to meet you
or something; and I wish I had met you, if it would have prevented this
unfortunate accident of yours, or whatever it was. My own carelessness
is always to blame," said Brian, with a heavy sigh, "and I don't wonder
that you look coldly upon me, Dino, when I seem to have done you such an
unfriendly turn. But I don't think I need say that I never meant to do
it."

"How did you know that I was here?" asked Dino, with breathless
interest.

"I saw in the papers an account of your being found insensible from a
wound in your side. The name Vasari was mentioned, and I came to see if
it could possibly be you."

Dino was silent for a few minutes. Then his face lighted up, his pale
lips parted with a smile. "So you never read Father Cristoforo's
letter?" he said. "And you sent me no message of reply?"

"Certainly not. How could I, when I did not know that you were in
England?"

Dino held out his hands. "I misjudged you," he said, simply, "Will you
forgive me and take my hand again?"

Brian clasped his hand. "You know there's nothing to forgive," he said,
with a smile. "But I am glad you don't think I neglected you on purpose,
Dino. I had not forgotten those pleasant days at San Stefano."

Dino smiled, too, but did not seem inclined to speak again. The nurse
came to say that the interview had lasted long enough, and Brian took
his leave, promising to come on the morrow, and struck with the look of
perfect peace and quiet upon the placid face as it lay amongst the white
pillows, almost as white as they.

He had only a couple of days left before he was to start for Pernambuco,
where he had heard of work that was likely to suit him. He had made his
arrangements, taken his passage in the steerage: he had nothing to do
now but to write a farewell letter to Mr. Heron, telling him whither he
was bound, and another--should he write that other or should he not?--to
Elizabeth. He felt it hard to go without saying one last farewell to
her. The discovery that she was the heiress of his property had finally
decided him to leave England. He dared not risk the chance of being
recognised and identified, if such recognition and identification would
lead to her poverty. For even if, by a deed of gift in his supposed name
of Brian Luttrell, he devised his wealth to her, he knew that she would
never consent to take it if he were still alive. The doubt thrown on his
birth and par