“Bless you, dear,” said Carlotta, softly.

I looked at her in wonder.  She had spoken for the first time like a grown woman—­like a woman with a soul.

A few weeks later.

We were sitting at breakfast.  The morning newspaper contained the account of a battle and the lists of British officers killed.  I scanned as usual the melancholy columns, when a name among the dead caught my eye—­and I stared at it stupidly.  Pasquale was dead, killed outright by a Boer bullet.  The wild, bright life was ended.  It seemed a horrible thing, and, much as he had wronged me, my first sentiment was one of dismay.  He was too gallant and beautiful a creature for death.

Carlotta poured out my tea and came round with the cup which she deposited by my side.  To prevent her peeping over my shoulder at the paper, as she usually did, I laid it on the table; but her quick eye had already read the great headlines.

“Great Battle.  British officers killed.  Oh, let me see, Seer Marcous.”

“No, dear,” said I.  “Go and eat your breakfast.”

She looked at me strangely.  I tried to smile; but as I am an incompetent actor my grimace was a proclamation of disingenuousness.

“Why shouldn’t I read it?” she asked, quickly.

“Because I say you mustn’t, Carlotta.”

She continued to look at me.  She had suddenly grown pale.  I stirred my tea and made a pretence of sipping it.

“Go on with your breakfast, my child,” I repeated.

“There is something—­something about him in the paper,” said Carlotta.  “He is a British officer.”

In the face of her intuition further concealment appeared useless.  Besides, sooner or later she would have to know.

“He is a British officer no longer, dear,” said I.

“Is he dead?”

My mind flew back to an evening long ago—­long, long ago it seemed —­when another newspaper had told of another death, and my ears caught the echo of the identical question that had then fallen from her lips.  I dreaded lest she should say again, “I am so glad.”

I beckoned her to my side, and pointing with my finger to the name watched her face anxiously.  She read, stared for a bit in front of her and turned to me with a piteous look.  I drew her to me, and she laid her face against my shoulder.

“I don’t know why I’m crying, Seer Marcous, dear,” she said, after a while.

I made her drink some of my tea, but she would eat nothing, and presently she went upstairs.  She had not said that she was glad.  She had wept and not known the reason for her tears.  I railed at myself for my doubts of her.

She was subdued and thoughtful all the day.  In the evening, instead of curling herself up in the sofa-corner among the cushions, she sat on a stool by my feet as I read, one hand supporting her chin, the other resting on my knee.

“I am glad he was a brave man,” she said at last, alluding to Pasquale for the first time since the morning.  “I like brave men.”