for a long walk in the gloaming; the silent earth was stretched in peace beneath the deepening sky, the moon rose among great clouds that floated like dragons’ ghosts upon the blue.  And I cried out within myself for very pain that I who had perception of these things should live so lying and so false a life.  Perhaps I am not quite myself yet; so much sorrow came to me at once that all my strength has left me.  But it is cowardly to make excuses.

I hear you:  “There you go, old wise-bones!  Here’s a storm in a tea-cup!  It’s much better to behave properly outside anyway, than to hurt people’s feelings and make them think worse of you than they need, by showing them what a wicked infidel you are.  Besides, what does it matter?”

Little one, do you remember how we shocked each other that Christmas morning in Florence, when we made a round of the churches together?  I can see you still, you pretty thing, crossing yourself at the door of Santa Maria Novella.  With all the strictness of my nineteen years I was simply horrified.

“Constance!” I cried, “what on earth are you doing?”

“I don’t like to be left in the cold,” you replied; “if there are any blessings going, I may as well have my share.”

“But, dearest,” said I, “you don’t believe in it!”

“Of course I don’t, but it may be true, for all that; how do we know?  Do let me enjoy myself, you dear old granny!  The stale water may not do me any good, but it won’t do me any harm either, now will it?”

Oh, dear, how the smell of the church comes back with the remembered words!  It was a long time ago.  Dear and sweet one, I must not think of you too much, I long for you so.

Yours in endless love,
Emilia.

LETTER VI.

Fletcher’shall, August 12th.

You must do as you think best.  You know that I long for you, that the thought of your wasted life is constant pain to me.  Think again, think every day, and if ever you can make up your mind to leave Mrs. Rayner, you know that I am here, that all I have is yours also.  I shall say no more.

So you have seen him, and he asked after me.  Well.  What was he doing in Homburg, I wonder?  Not that I care.  I really believe, Constance, that I care no longer.  And yet it so happens that last night I thought of him a good deal.  It came about so.  Grandmamma had gone to bed, and I went into Aunt Caroline’s room to light her candles.  There are some little water-colours round the mirror that she painted as a girl.  I stopped to look at them, and the poor soul took them down one by one to show me.  There was a story attached to each, and her eyes brightened with remembrance of the past.  Most of the little pictures were different views of the same house.  Suddenly she gave a little smile.

“Wait a minute; I’ll show you another picture, Milly—­my best picture.” (They will call me Milly; there’s no help for it.) “I have never shown it to any one before, but you are a good girl; I think I should like to show it to you.”