n you!"

From upbraiding, he fell to lamentation. His life was wrecked; he had
lost his ideals; and all through her unworthiness. Then, as Madeline
was still unrelenting, he began to humble himself. He confessed his
levity; he had not considered the risk he ran of losing her respect;
all he had done was in pique at her treatment of him. And in the end he
implored her forgiveness, besought her to restore him to life by
accepting his unqualified submission. To part from her on such terms as
these meant despair; the consequences would be tragic. And when he
could go no further in amorous supplication, when she felt that her
injured pride had exacted the uttermost from his penitence, Madeline at
length relented.

"Still," she said, after his outburst of gratitude, "don't think that I
ask you to become a man of business. You shall never charge me with
that. It is your nature to reproach other people when anything goes
wrong with you; I know you only too well. You must decide for yourself;
I will take no responsibility."

Yes, he accepted that; it was purely his own choice. Rather than lose
her, he would toil at any most ignoble pursuit, amply repaid by the
hope she granted him.

They had walked some distance, and were out of sight of the Mergellina,
on the ascending road of Posillipo, all the moonlit glory of the bay
before them.

"It will be long before we see it again," said Madeline, sadly.

"We will spend our honeymoon here," was Clifford's hopeful reply.

CHAPTER XVI

LETTERS

On the thirteenth day after the flight from Capri, Edward Spence,
leaving the villa for his afternoon walk, encountered the postman and
received from him three letters. One was addressed to Ross Mallard,
Esq., care of Edward Spence, Esq.; another, to Mrs. Spence; the third,
to Mrs. Baske. As he reascended the stairs, somewhat more quickly than
his wont, Spence gave narrow attention to the handwriting on the
envelopes. He found Eleanor where he had left her a few minutes before,
at the piano, busy with a difficult passage of Brahms. She looked round
in surprise, and on seeing the letters started up eagerly.

"Do you know Elgar's hand?" Spence asked. "These two from London are
his, I should imagine. This for you is from Mrs. Lessingham, isn't it?"

"Yes; I think this is the news, at last," said Eleanor, inspecting Mrs.
Baske's letter, not without feminine emotion. "I'll take it to her.
Shall you go over with the other?"

"He'