Hedwig moved her head to say “Yes.”

“We will go, then, sweetheart.  Where shall it be?” asked Nino, trying to distract her thoughts from what had just occurred.  “London?  Paris?  Vienna?  I can sing anywhere now, but you must always choose, love.”

“Anywhere, anywhere; only always with you, Nino, till we die together.”

“Always, till we die, my beloved,” he repeated.  The small white hands stole up and clasped about his broad throat, tenderly drawing his face to hers, and hers to his.  And it will be “always,” till they die together, I think.

* * * * *

This is the story of that Roman singer whose great genius is making such a stir in the world.  I have told it to you, because he is my own dear boy, as I have often said in these pages; and because people must not think that he did wrong to carry Hedwig von Lira away from her father, nor that Hedwig was so very unfilial and heartless.  I know that they were both right, and the day will come when old Lira will acknowledge it.  He is a hard old man, but he must have some affection for her; and if not, he will surely have the vanity to own so famous an artist as Nino for his son-in-law.

I do not know how it was managed, for Hedwig was certainly a heretic when she left her father, though she was an angel, as Nino said.  But before they left Rome for Vienna there was a little wedding, early in the morning, in our parish church, for I was there; and De Pretis, who was really responsible for the whole thing, got some of his best singers from St. Peter and St. John on the Lateran to come and sing a mass over the two.  I think that our good Mother Church found room for the dear child very quickly, and that is how it happened.

They are happy and glad together, those two hearts that never knew love save for each other, and they will be happy always.  For it was nothing but love with them from the very first, and so it must be to the very last.  Perhaps you will say that there is nothing in this story either but love.  And if so, it is well; for where there is naught else there can surely be no sinning, or wrongdoing, or weakness, or meanness; nor yet anything that is not quite pure and undefiled.

Just as I finish this writing, there comes a letter from Nino to say that he has taken steps about buying Serveti, and that I must go there in the spring with Mariuccia and make it ready for him.  Dear Serveti, of course I will go.

THE END