f
mind--was the thought that she must go away, must be separated from this
man who was the life of her life.

'My darling, I shall die. I am going away to die far from
you--alone--all alone--and you will not be there to close my eyes----'

She smiled as she spoke with certainty and resignation. But Andrea
endeavoured to kindle an illusive hope in her breast, to sow in her
heart the seeds of a dream that could only lead to future suffering.

'I will not let you die! You will be mine again and for a long time to
come. We have many happy days of love before us yet!'

He spoke of the immediate future.--He would go and establish himself in
Florence; from there he could go over as often as he liked to Sienna
under the pretext of study--could pass whole months there copying some
Old Master or making researches in ancient chronicles. Their love should
have its hidden nest in some deserted street, or beyond the city, in the
country, in some villa decorated with rural ornaments and surrounded by
a meadow. She would be able to spare an hour now and then for their
love. Sometimes she would come and spend a whole week in Florence, a
week of unbroken happiness. They would air their idyll on the hillside
of Fiesole in a September as mild as April, and the cypresses of
Montughi would not be less kind to them than the cypresses of
Schifanoja.

'Would it were true! Would it were true!' sighed Maria.

'You don't believe me?'

'Oh yes, I believe you; but my heart tells me that all these sweet
things will remain a dream.'

She made Andrea take her in his arms and hold her there for a long time;
and she leaned upon his breast, silently crouching into his embrace as
if to hide herself, with the shiver of a sick person or of one who seeks
protection from some threatening danger. She asked of Andrea only the
delicate caresses that in the language of affection she called 'kisses
of the soul' and that melted her to tears sweeter than any more carnal
delights. She could not understand how in these moments of supreme
spirituality, in these last sad hours of passion and farewell her lover
was not content to kiss her hands.

'No--no, dear love,' she besought him, half repelled by Andrea's crude
display of passion, 'I feel that you are nearer to me, closer to my
heart, more entirely one with me, when you are sitting at my side, and
take my hand in yours and look into my eyes and say the things to me
that you alone know how to say. Those oth