Ere she had left Scotland, Corinne had heard the announcement of the proposed marriage.  She retired to Florence, and dwelt there in unending misery.  Her poetic faculty, her love of the arts, could not console her, for they were utterly subjugated by her despair.  Her whole soul had been given to her love for Oswald.  And when he had forsaken her, her life had been broken by the blow.

It was four years ere Oswald returned to England, and soon afterwards he and Lucy were summoned to the deathbed of Lady Edgarmond.  He now had a dangerous illness; in his delirium he cried for the southern sun.  Lucy heard him, and remembered Corinne.  Oswald had striven to forget his former passion, but could not help at times contrasting Corinne’s warmth of feeling with Lucy’s coldness.  Lucy had been taught by her mother that it was immodest to avow affection even for a husband.  She loved Oswald, but her pride concealed her love.

Oswald was ordered to Italy by his physicians, and his wife and child accompanied him.  At Milan the earth was snow-covered; beyond there, the rivers were in flood, and the land was covered by cold, damp fog.

“Where is your lovely Italy?” asked Lucy.

“I know not where or when I shall regain her,” sadly answered Oswald.  As he approached Florence, where he had heard that Corinne was dwelling, his heart became terribly agitated.  He had learnt, through his old friend d’Erfeuil, that Corinne had been faithful to him, that she had followed him to England, and sought to see him, that he and not she was the betrayer.

On arriving at Florence, Oswald met Prince Castel Forte, whose faithful, unrewarded homage to Corinne was still unchanged.  Corinne, the Prince told him, was ill and growing weaker every day.  Oswald’s desertion, he said plainly, had mortally wounded her.

Oswald, dismally repentant, handed Castel Forte a letter to Corinne in which he begged permission to see her.  In answer she declined the permission, but asked to see his wife and child.

The little girl was taken to her; Lucy had resolved not to go, but was struck with fear lest the child’s affection should be won away from her.  She went at length, determined to reproach Corinne, but all her anger vanished at the sight of the wasted woman on the sickbed.  The sisters embraced in tears.

Castel Forte had told Corinne of the reserve and coldness that separated Lucy from her husband.  Her last wish was to reconcile them, and thus aid by means of another, the happiness of the man she loved.

“Pride not yourself in your perfections, dear sister,” she said; “let your charm consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne and Lucy in one; let not grace be injured by self-respect.”

Lucy bore her words in mind; the barriers between herself and her husband were gradually removed, and Oswald guessed who was removing them.

At last the end came.  Corinne lay on a sofa, where she could gaze upon the sky.  Castel Forte held her dying hand.  Lucy entered; behind her came Oswald.  He fell at her feet.  She would have spoken, but her voice failed.  She looked up—­the moon was covered by just such a cloud as they had seen at Naples.  Corinne pointed to it—­one sigh—­and her hand sank powerless in death.