She was standing on the brink of the rock with her back to the danger.  A moment she wavered:  then Maurice could restrain himself no longer, but, extending his arm, he rushed toward her.

A little step backward, a shy movement to yet delay the consent that was already on her lips, a fall, a splash, and the waters of the lake closed over the body of Fay Lafitte.

To save her or lose himself was the resolution of the doctor as he leapt to the rescue.  He was a good swimmer, and soon came to the surface after the plunge, but the shadow of the rock retarded his search.  At last he found her, and then a new difficulty, that of landing, presented itself.  The shore was covered with a fringe of impenetrable brushwood, which gave him the scantiest support, and it was impossible to mount the face of the rock.  Almost in despair, he looked across the water, where he saw in the moonlight a fisherman’s boat.  Slowly the little craft obeyed his repeated calls for help.  Sturdy arms relieved him of his insensible burden, while he, scarcely taking time to climb beside her, hoarsely bade the men row for their lives.

It is needless to describe the scene of confusion which followed on their arrival at the hotel.  The only practical man there was Dr. Grey, who gave orders and applied remedies with desperate energy.  His persistence was rewarded:  the veined lids opened, the white lips parted, intelligence returned:  she spoke, and Maurice threw himself on his knees and bent over her that he might catch the words.  “My warning was true,” she whispered slowly, “but—­I—­am—­willing—­to—­die—­for—­loving—­you.”  Then perception faded from those gentle eyes, breathing ceased, the muscles relaxed.  Fay was dead.

And the doctor?

He afterward married his cousin:  she was so kind to him at the time of his sad affliction.

ITA ANIOL PROKOP.

A SCENE IN THE CAMPAGNA.

You remember the Piazza della Bocca della Verita at Rome?  No?  Perhaps it is too far away from the Piazza di Spagna and the stairs of the Monte di Trinita, which may be taken to be the central points of English or American Rome.  Yet you must have passed by the Bocca della Verita on your way to your drive on the Via Appia and the tomb of Caecilia Metella.  Do you not remember a large, shambling, unkempt-looking open space, a sort of cross in appearance between the piazza of a city and a farmyard, a little after passing the remains of the Teatro di Marcello, the grand old arches of which are now, in the whirligig of Time’s revenges, turned into blacksmiths’ shops?  The piazza in question is nearly open on one side to the Tiber, on the immediate bank of which stands that elegant little round temple, with its colonnade of charming fluted pillars, which has from time out of mind been known as the Temple of Vesta, though the designation, as modern archaeologists tell us, is probably erroneous.  All the world,