“And then you will come home, come home to us!” said Violet; “and we will take care of you.  You shall not miss your Psyche!”

“And then,” continued Ernest, shaking his head, “then I shall go into Sicily.  I shall help Garibaldi.  I shall join the Italian cause.”

“Garibaldi!  The cause!” exclaimed Violet.  “Are you not ashamed to plead it?  You know you would go then not for others, but to throw away your own life!  You are tired of living, and you seek that way to rid yourself of life!  Confess it at once!”

“Very well, then,” answered Ernest, “it is so.”

“Then do not sully a good cause with a traitor’s help,” said Violet, “nor take its noble name.  The life you offer would be worth no more than a spent ball.  You have been a coward in your own fight, and Garibaldi does not—­nor does Italy—­want a coward in his ranks.  Oh, Ernest, forgive me my hard words! but it is our life that you are spending so freely, it is our blood that you want to pour out!  If you cannot live for yourself, for me, will you not live for Harry’s sake?”

“For you, for you, Heart’s-Ease!” exclaimed Ernest, calling Violet by one of her old childish names, “But Harry lives for you, and you for him; and God knows there is no life left for me.  But you are right:  I am a coward and a bungler, because I can create no life.  I give myself to you and him.”

Violet stood long before the statue of Psyche, cold as the marble, with hot fires raging within.

“He loves me, loves me as Harry does!  His love is deeper, perhaps,—­higher, perhaps.  He was not above me,—­he lifted me above himself, looked up to me!  He dies for me!”

Presently she found Ernest.

“Ernest, you say you will do as we wish.  I must go home directly, and without you.  I shall take a vessel from Leghorn.  Harry and I planned my going home that way.  It is less expensive, more direct; and I confess I do not feel so strong about going home alone as I did in coming.  My head is full of thoughts, and I could not take care of myself; but I would rather go alone.  You will stay here, and we will write to you, or Harry will come for you.  But you must take care of yourself; you must not starve yourself.”

Her Italian friends accompanied her to the vessel and bade her good-bye, Ernest was with them.  She wrote to Harry the day she sailed.  The vessel looked comfortable enough; it was well-laden, and in its hold was the marble statue of a great man,—­great in worth as well as in weight.

A few weeks after Violet left, Harry appeared in Florence.  He had just missed her letter.

“I came to bring you both home,” he said.  “I finished my contract successfully, and gave myself this little vacation.”

Harry was dismayed to find that Violet was gone.

“But we will return directly, and arrive in time, perhaps, to greet her as she gets home.”

Monica urged,—­