He looked at her wonderingly for a few moments, before he answered,
softly--

"Valentina."

"Valentina," said Netta, smiling. "Yes, a pretty name--Valentina. I
shall love it as I love her."

"You love her?"

"Yes, though I have never seen her. Did you not tell me that she loved
you? You think me strange," she continued, smiling in his face, "but I
am not. Why, if you could have loved me, I could not have stayed, and
you would have been unhappy. It is for the best, and I shall know that
you are content."

"Netta," said Richard, hoarsely, "you must not talk like this."

"Why not?" she said, wonderingly. "All the trouble seems past to me.
Now I know you feel for me--I believe you like me. Everybody seems kind
to me now, and that foolish little dream has quite passed away. Come,
tell me about her. I should like to know her. Would she come to see
me--if she knew that I was dying?"

"Yes, I feel sure she would, if she knew all," said Richard, sadly.
"She is everything that is gentle and good, and would have loved you
dearly, Netta. You may meet yet."

"I should like to see her," said the girl, enthusiastically, "that I
might tell her how noble and good you are. There, you see how I make an
idol of my brother Richard."

He started, and looked hard at her.

"Yes," she said, "brother Richard--you were behaving like a dear brother
to me, only I could not understand. I never had a brother, but you will
be one to me still. You will not stay away, Richard, even if I love
you, for it is a chastened love now--one that I need not feel ashamed to
own. You'll not stay away, but come and sit with me, and read to me, as
you did before?"

He shook his head sadly.

"Yes--yes, you will come," she cried, putting her hands together. "I
shall have something to live for then--a little longer--and we can sit
and talk of her--of Valentina. If you stay away--I--I--shall--die."

It was no fiction of the lips, and Richard knew it, as her voice grew
weaker, and she seemed to droop. The mark was upon her face, telling
that she was one of those soon to fall. Her pitiful appeal went to his
heart; and raising her in his arms, he pillowed her head upon his
shoulder, and kissed her quivering, pallid lips, as in a voice broken
with emotion he muttered in the familiar old scriptural words--

"God do so to me, and more also, my poor stricken lamb, if I do not try
and smooth your poor, thorny path."

Once, and once only