aid, gravely. "Buona notte, signorino. Buon
riposo!"

"Buon riposo!" echoed Hermione. "It is blessed to hear that again. I do
love the clock, Gaspare."

The boy beamed at her and went reluctantly away to find the donkeys. At
that moment Maurice would have given almost anything to keep him. He
dreaded unspeakably to be alone with Hermione. But it had to be. He must
face it. He must seem natural, happy.

"Shall I put the clock down?" he asked.

He went to her, took the clock, carried it to the writing-table, and put
it down.

"Gaspare was so happy to bring it to you."

He turned. He felt desperate. He came to Hermione and put out his hands.

"I feel so bad that we weren't here," he said.

"That is it!"

There was a sound of deep relief in her voice. Then she had been puzzled
by his demeanor! He must be natural; but how? It seemed to him as if
never in all his life could he have felt innocent, careless, brave. Now
he was made of cowardice. He was like a dog that crawls with its belly to
the floor. He got hold of Hermione's hands.

"I feel--I feel horribly, horribly bad!"

Speaking the absolute truth, his voice was absolutely sincere, and he
deceived her utterly.

"Maurice," she said, "I believe it's upset you so much that--that you are
shy of me."

She laughed happily.

"Shy--of me!"

He tried to laugh, too, and kissed her abruptly, awkwardly. All his
natural grace was gone from him. But when he kissed her she did not know
it; her lips clung to his with a tender passion, a fealty that terrified
him.

"She must know!" he thought. "She must feel the truth. My lips must tell
it to her."

And when at last they drew away from each other his eyes asked her
furiously a question, asked it of her eyes.

"What is it, Maurice?"

He said nothing. She dropped her eyes and reddened slowly, till she
looked much younger than usual, strangely like a girl.

"You haven't--you haven't----"

There was a sound of reserve in her voice, and yet a sound of triumph,
too. She looked up at him again.

"Do you guess that I have something to tell you?" she said, slowly.

"Something to tell me?" he repeated, dully.

He was so intent on himself, on his own evil-doing, that it seemed to him
as if everything must have some connection with it.

"Ah," she said, quickly; "no, I see you weren't."

"What is it?" he asked, but without real interest.

"I can't tell you now," she said.

Gaspare went by the window leading the