“My mother—­my blind mother.  Some years ago, before she lost her sight, I accompanied her on a short European tour, in which we visited England, France, Switzerland, and finally Italy.  While we were at Rome I fell ill with the fever of the country, and my physicians gave orders that as soon as I was well enough to travel I should leave Italy for a more bracing climate.  We had not visited Naples, and I was anxious that my mother should not return home without seeing the wonders of that city; so as soon as I became convalescent I prevailed upon her to leave me in the care of some friends and to join a party who were going thither.  During her stay she went frequently to the opera.  One evening she was greatly disturbed by the loud talking and laughing of some persons in the box next to the one she occupied, and she was much struck with the beauty, the brilliant toilette and the boisterous conduct of one of the female members of the party.  She inquired the name of the person she had thus remarked.  It was yourself, and she learned not only your name, but your whole history.  When at her own dinner-table she heard the sweet and singular laugh that had so struck her on that occasion, the sensitiveness of hearing peculiar to the blind caused her to recognize the sound at once; and the description which I afterward gave her of your personal appearance only changed torturing doubt into agonizing certainty.”

“Thanks for your courtesy:  I will detain you no longer.”

Horace bowed and approached the door.  Suddenly, as if moved by a sudden impulse, he turned back.

“Believe me, this task has been a hard one,” he said, earnestly.  “And remember, if hereafter you may need pecuniary aid, do not hesitate to apply to me.  For Heaven’s sake, do not return to the life you once led.  There was one redeeming feature in the imposture which you practiced:  it showed that some yearning for a pure name and an innocent life was yet possible to you.”

“I want no sermons,” she answered, abruptly.  “Only leave me at peace.  Go:  I am sick of the sight of you.”

As he closed the door he cast one parting glance on the room and its occupant.  She stood leaning against the back of a large arm-chair, her clasped hands resting on the top, and her white, rigid face set in the fixed calmness of total despair.

Thus left alone, she remained standing for some time as motionless as though she were a marble statue and not a living woman.  Suddenly she seemed to take some desperate resolve:  she threw back her head with a bitter, mirthless laugh, and going to the bell she rang it.  Her maid quickly appeared.

“I have a wretched headache, Christine,” she said.  “I shall not come down to dinner, and do not disturb me till nine o’clock:  that will give me time enough to dress for Mrs. Winchester’s ball.  I will wear the pale-blue satin and my point-lace tunic.  Be sure you change the white roses that loop it for pink ones, and lay out my parure of pearls and diamonds, and my point-lace fan and handkerchief.  Now bring me the two phials that stand on the third shelf of the closet in my bed-chamber.”