She felt, too, that she had often treated him with unnecessary and almost unmannerly coldness, and repenting of it, she meant, in pure innocence of maiden purpose, to make it up to him now, by being more kind.  Indeed, she could not understand why she had ever been so hard to him in former days, excepting when he had spoken so rudely to her at Bianca’s house; and since she had seen and learned to value his loyal affection for Gianluca, she had not only forgiven him for what he had said, but had found that, on the whole, he had been right to say it.

As for her marriage with Gianluca, it seemed to her to have changed nothing, beyond the great change it had wrought in him for the better.  She talked with him as before.  She felt, as before, that he was her dearest and best friend.  To please him, she made plans with him for their future, though sometimes the sharp fear for his life ran through her heart like a needle of ice.  They could live half the year in Naples and the other six months in Muro, but sometimes, when he should be quite well, they would travel and see the world together.  It was pleasant to think that they had the right to be always together, now, for it would have seemed terrible even to Veronica to go back to the old days of letter-writing.  To her, their marriage had been the final cementing of the most beautiful friendship in the world.  She was glad that she had given her life for him, since, after all, the giving of it now changed it so little.  It was clear, she thought, that she was made for friendship and not for love; and since she was so made, she had done the best in marrying her best friend.

One day, when Gianluca was asleep, she had gone alone to her little rose garden up by the dungeon tower.  The autumn was beginning in the mountains; there were few roses left, and the northerly breeze blew up to her out of the vast depth at her feet.  Alone there, she thought of all these things and of how she was intended by her nature for this friendship of hers.  Seasoning about it with herself, she took an imaginary case.  Suppose, she thought, that she had begun to be Taquisara’s friend, instead of Gianluca’s, on that day in Bianca’s garden.  Her mind worked quickly.  She pictured to herself the long correspondence, the intimacy of thought, the meeting and the destruction of the dividing barrier, the daily, hourly growing friendship, and then—­the marriage, the touch of hands, the first kiss.

The scarlet blood leapt up like fire to her face.  She started and looked round, half dreading lest some one might be there to see.  But she was quite alone, and she wondered at herself.  It must be shame, she thought, at the mere idea of marrying another man when she was Gianluca’s wife.  At all events, she said in her heart, she would not think of such things again.  It was probably a sin, and she would remember to speak of it, at her next confession.  Don Teodoro would tell her what he thought.  For