re
now on the last ascent where the mountain-side was bare. Some stones
rattled downward, causing a sharp, continuous sound. It was answered by
another sound, which made both Gaspare and Maurice draw rein and pull up.

As on that first day in Sicily Maurice had been welcomed by the
"Pastorale," so he was welcomed by it now. What an irony that was to him!
For an instant his lips curved in a bitter smile. But the smile died away
as he realized things, and a strange sadness took hold of his heart. For
it was not the ceramella that he heard in this still hour, but a piano
played softly, monotonously, with a dreamy tenderness that made it surely
one with the tenderness of the deep night. And he knew that Hermione had
been watching, that she had heard him coming, that this was her welcome,
a welcome from the depths of her pure, true heart. How much the music
told him! How clearly it spoke to him! And how its caress flagellated his
bare soul! Hermione had returned expectant of welcome and had found
nothing, and instead of coming out upon the terrace, instead of showing
surprise, vexation, jealous curiosity, of assuming the injured air that
even a good woman can scarcely resist displaying in a moment of acute
disappointment, she sent forth this delicate salutation to him from afar,
the sweetest that she knew, the one she herself loved best.

Tears came into his eyes as he listened. Then he shut his eyes and said
to himself, shuddering:

"Oh, you beast! You beast!"

"It is the signora!" said Gaspare, turning round on his donkey. "She does
not know we are here, and she is playing to keep herself awake."

He looked down at his clock, and his eyes began to shine.

"I am glad the signora is awake!" he said. "Signorino, let us get off the
donkeys and leave them at the arch, and let us go in without any noise."

"But perhaps the signora knows that we are here," Maurice said.

Directly he had heard the music he had known that Hermione was aware of
their approach.

"No, no, signore. I am sure she does not, or she would have come out to
meet us. Let us leave the donkeys!"

He sprang off softly. Mechanically, Maurice followed his example.

"Now, signore!"

The boy took him by the hand and led him on tiptoe to the terrace, making
him crouch down close to the open French window. The "Pastorale" was
louder here. It never ceased, but returned again and again with the
delicious monotony that made it memorable and wove a spell roun