e little bits of memories, one by one,
threading them in one continuous string. There was Bianca Corleone's
look of blank surprise when Veronica had first spoken of a possible
marriage with Bosio, and there was Taquisara's bold assertion, tallying
with the priest's, that the Macomer wanted her fortune, and there was
very vividly before her the gnawing anxiety she had seen in Matilde's
face until the latter had caught sight of the artificial flower on that
memorable evening. And the string on which the beads of memory were
threaded was her long-repressed but profound distrust of Gregorio
Macomer. It had seemed a wicked prejudice, a gratuitously false
judgment, based upon something in his face, and she had always fought
against it as unworthy, besides being irrational. Then, too, there was
the will she had signed a fortnight since, for the sake of peace. If
there was nothing in what the priest had said, why had they been so
terribly anxious to get the document executed without delay? It was
scarcely natural. And there were fifty other details, turns of phrases,
changes of expression, little words of Gregorio's spoken in an enigmatic
tone to his wife, which Veronica had not understood, but which she had
therefore remembered, and which could mean that he was on the verge of
ruin, and in great trouble of mind about his affairs. Amidst the wildly
shifting scenery of dreams, the little doll figures of abiding facts out
of memory joined hands in procession, showing their faces one by one and
their likeness to one another more and more clearly. Even in her dream,
it flashed upon her that it might all be true except that one part of it
which said that Bosio had loved Matilde and not herself. That was not
true. He had loved her, Veronica; they had known it, and had taken
advantage of it. She did not blame them for that. She had been so fond
of him,--she knew that she should soon have loved him,--and the dream
swung back upon itself, and she was again standing beside the fire in
the yellow room, with him so near to her. And after she awoke, she shed
tears.

On that morning, after eleven o'clock, Matilde came to Veronica's room,
bringing a piece of needlework with her, and she sat down to stay a
while. They talked idly about dull subjects, and from time to time
Matilde looked up and smiled sadly. She sat so that she could not see
Bosio's photograph on the mantelpiece. After she had been there half an
hour, she started, suddenly reme