urgent inquiries had been
made at the tiny post-office as to whether a young lady had arrived in
the village unexpectedly. It had struck Owen as possible that, in her
madness, Toni might have returned to her childhood's home; but although,
had she not met Luisa, Toni would probably have done so, that chance
meeting at the station had turned her feet into another path, and
naturally no one here knew anything of her whereabouts.

She had intended spending the whole of her holiday in the village; but
the absence of any welcome depressed her sensitive spirit, and she
decided to return to Naples in the evening and spend the days of her
freedom in exploring more thoroughly the fascinating streets and byways
of the picturesque and romantic town.

It was late when she arrived home, carrying her little valise; and old
Janet, who in spite of her long residence in Italy was still
uncompromisingly British, was surprised to see her lodger returning.

"I thought you were going to stay a few days," she said quite
reproachfully. "Now a real good change would have been the very best
thing for you, miss, and I'm right sorry to see you back."

"You're not very kind, Janet!" Toni smiled rather wearily, "I couldn't
stay ... all my friends were dead and gone ... there were only ghosts
left to welcome me, and I couldn't bear it!"

The old woman read the disappointment in the girl's tone and was sorry
for her.

"Well, come along in, miss, and I'll bring you some supper right away.
There's an omelette, and some lovely risotto I'm making for Pietro, and
a glass or two of Chianti will soon hearten you up--though for my part I
think a bottle of good English stout is worth all the thin wines in
Italy!"

When, later, she bustled in again with some excellent coffee, the old
woman brought a bundle of papers which had been left by Mrs. Moody
earlier in the day. There were various English and American magazines,
and a few weekly papers; and had doubtless been intended to lighten the
loneliness of Toni's holiday.

She sat sipping her coffee and turning the pages rather listlessly.
Somehow reading appealed to her less than ever nowadays. She was always
so fully occupied with her own miserable thoughts, that the imaginative
writings of other people could claim small share of her interest; but
she dipped into the magazines as she sat alone, and tried to forget
herself for an hour in the perusal of their pages.

Among the papers was a copy of the