t, but his wife
never knew whether he consented because it would have given her pain if
he had refused, or whether he really desired spiritual comfort in his
last moments. He was always most considerate of others and especially of
her; but he was very reticent. So she mourned him and prayed that
everything might be well with both her departed husbands, though she
doubted whether they were in the same place. She supposed that
Fortiguerra had sometimes discussed religion with his step-daughter, but
he always seemed to take it for granted that the latter should do what
her mother desired of her.

It could hardly be expected that the girl should be what is called very
devout, and as Petersen turned over the pages of her little book she
wondered what had happened that Cecilia should kneel motionless on the
marble pavement for more than half an hour in a church to which they had
never come before, and on a week-day which was not a saint's day either.

It was something like despair that had brought her to Santa Croce, and
she had chosen the place because she could think of no other in which
she could be quite sure of being alone, and out of the way of all
acquaintances. She wanted something which her books could not give her,
and which she could not find in herself; she wanted peace and good
advice, and she felt that she was dealt with unjustly.

Indeed, it was of little profit that she should have forced herself to
give up what was dearest to her, unreal though it might be, since she
was to be haunted by Lamberti's face and voice whenever she fell asleep.
It was more like a possession of the evil one now than anything else.
She would have used his own words to describe it, if she had dared to
speak of it to any one, but that seemed impossible. She had thought of
going to some confessor who did not know her by sight, to tell him the
whole story, but her common sense assured her that she had done no
wrong. It was advice she needed, and perhaps it was protection too, but
it was certainly not forgiveness, so far as she knew.

Lamberti pursued her, in her imagination, and she lived in terror of
him. If she had been already married to Guido, she would have told her
husband everything, and he would have helped her. By a revulsion that
was not unnatural, it began to seem much easier to marry him now, and
she turned to him in her thoughts, asking him to shield her from a man
she feared. Guido loved her, and she was at least a devot