It had happened nearly three years ago in Florence, and an accident had brought it all about.  One afternoon she was walking in the streets; she could still see the deep cornices showing distinct against the sky; she was admiring them when suddenly a church appeared; she could not tell how it was, but she had been propelled to enter....  A feeling which had arisen out of her heart, a sort of yearning—­that was it.  The church was almost empty; how restful it had seemed that afternoon, the rough plastered walls and the two figures of the nuns absorbed in prayer.  Her heart had begun to ache, and her daily life with its riches and glories had seemed to concern her no longer.  It was as if the light had changed, and she had become suddenly aware of her real self.  A tall cross stood oddly placed between the arches; she had not seen it at first, but as her eyes rested upon it she had been drawn into wistful communion with her dying Redeemer.  And all that had seemed false suddenly became true, and she had left the church overcome with remorse.  That night her door was closed to Owen; she had pleaded indisposition, unable for some shame to speak the truth.  On the next day and the day after the desire of forgiveness had sent her to the church and then to the priest, but the priest had refused her absolution till she separated from her lover.  She had felt that she must obey.  She had written a note—­she could not think of it now—­so cruel did it seem, yet at the time it had seemed quite natural.  It was not until the next day, and the day after was worse still, that she began to plumb the depths of her own unhappiness; every day it seemed to grow deeper.  She could not keep him out of her mind.  She used to sit and try to do needlework in the hotel sitting-room.  But how often had she had to put it down and to walk to the window to hide her tears?  As the time drew near for her to go to the theatre, she had to vow not to cry again till she got home.  He was always in his box—­once she had nearly broken down, and, pitying her, he came no more.  But not to see him at all was worse than the pain of seeing him.  That empty box!  And all through the night she thought of him in his hotel, only a street or two distant.  She could not go through it again, nor could she think what would have happened if they had not met.  Something had prompted her to go out one afternoon; she was weak with weeping and sick with love, and, feeling that there are burdens beyond our strength, she had walked with her eyes steadily fixed before her ... and somehow she was not surprised when she saw him coming towards her.  He joined her quite naturally, as if by appointment, and they had walked on, instinctively finding their way out of the crowd.  They had walked on and on, now and then exchanging remarks, waiting for a full explanation, wondering what form it would take.  Cypresses and campanili defined themselves in the landscape as the evening advanced.  Further on the country flattened out; there were urban gardens and dusty little vineyards.  They had sat on a bench; above them was a statue of the Virgin; she remembered noticing it; it reminded her of her scapular, but nothing had mattered to her then but Owen.  He said—­