ehold in the hideous uproar
and confusion which first followed the discovery of Bosio's death.
Elettra was a wise woman as well as a revengeful one. By the deeds of
the Macomer, as she looked at it, her own husband had been killed, and
she had cursed their house, living and dead. She had blood now, for her
blood, and in the dark corridor she smiled once. But no one should
disturb Veronica, and she stood there, where any one must pass to go to
the girl's room, silent, satisfied, watchful. She loved her mistress, as
she hated all the Macomer, body and soul, alive and dead. Some foolish
women of the household would have roused Veronica, for they came, two
together, asking in loud hysterical voices, whether she knew. But
Elettra kept them off, and took the news herself in the morning when
Veronica rang for her.

"A terrible thing has happened in the night," she said, when she had
opened the windows.

Veronica opened her eyes wide and then rubbed them slowly with her slim,
dark fingers and looked again at Elettra.

"It is a very terrible thing," continued the woman, gravely. "It
happened in the night, and all was confusion, but I would not let them
disturb you. They heard the pistol-shot and broke down the door. He was
already dead. He had shot himself."

"Who?" asked Veronica, in instant horror. "Some one in the house? A
servant?"

Elettra shook her head.

"No. I would not tell you--but you must know. It was Count Bosio."

Veronica turned pale and started up. "Bosio? Bosio dead?" she cried in a
voice that was almost a scream.

The woman was sensible and understood her, and by that time the
household was quiet, so that there was no fear lest any one else should
come to Veronica's room.

But when she was quite sure of what had happened, Veronica wept bitterly
for a long time, burying her face in her pillows and refusing to listen
any more to Elettra. Then, if the woman had not prevented her, almost
forcibly, she would have gone upstairs to see him where he lay dead. But
Elettra would not let her go, for she knew that Matilde was there, and
why; and moreover, it was not within her ideas of custom that a young
girl should go and look at any one dead. But Veronica's tears flowed on.

At first it was only sorrow, real and heartfelt, without any attempt to
reason and explain. But by and by she began to ask herself questions for
the dead man's sake. In her dreams the sweet words he had spoken in the
evening had come ba