aid, after a long silence.

"Nothing. I have no wish to do anything. I shall just wait--for our
child."

"But where will you wait? You cannot wait here. The heat would weaken
you. In your condition it would be dangerous."

"He spoke of going. It hurt me for a moment, I remember. I had a wish to
stay here forever then. It seemed to me that this little bit of earth and
rock was the happiest place in all the world. Yes, I will go, Emile, but
I shall come back. I shall bring our child here."

He did not combat this intention then, for he was too thankful to have
gained her assent to the departure for which he longed. The further
future must take care of itself.

"I will take you to Italy, to Switzerland, wherever you wish to go."

"I have no wish for any other place. But I will go somewhere in Italy.
Wherever it is cool and silent will do. But I must be far away from
people; and when you have taken me there, dear Emile, you must leave me
there."

"Quite alone?"

"Gaspare will be with me. I shall always keep Gaspare. Maurice and he
were like two brothers in their happiness. I know they loved each other,
and I know Gaspare loves me."

Artois only said:

"I trust the boy."

The word "trust" seemed to wake Hermione into a stronger life.

"Ah, Emile," she said, "once you distrusted the south. I remember your
very words. You said, 'I love the south, but I distrust what I love, and
I see the south in him.' I want to tell you, I want you to know, how
perfect he was always to me. He loved joy, but his joy was always
innocent. There was always something of the child in him. He was
unconscious of himself. He never understood his own beauty. He never
realized that he was worthy of worship. His thought was to reverence and
to worship others. He loved life and the sun--oh, how he loved them! I
don't think any one can ever have loved life and the sun as he did, ever
will love them as he did. But he was never selfish. He was just quite
natural. He was the deathless boy. Emile, have you noticed anything about
me--since?"

"What, Hermione?"

"How much older I look now. He was like my youth, and my youth has gone
with him."

"Will it not revive--when--?"

"No, never. I don't wish it to. Gaspare gathered roses, all the best
roses from his father's little bit of land, to throw into the grave. And
I want my youth to lie there with my Sicilian under Gaspare's roses. I
feel as if that would be a tender companionship. I gave e