“Ah, dear, I have forgiven you wholly—­there is not an unkind thought left in my heart for you!” She turned and laid the hand that was free upon his shoulder, looking into his face with an expression that was almost imploring.  “Do not think it is that, oh, not that!  I would forgive you again, a thousand times—­”

“And love me?” he cried, throwing his arms round her neck, and kissing her passionately again and again.  But suddenly he drew back, for there was no response to his caresses.  He turned very pale as he saw the look in her eyes.  There were tears there, for the love that had been, for his present pain, perhaps, but there was not one faint spark of the fire that had burned in other days.

“I cannot say it!” she answered at last.  “Oh, do not make me say it, for the sake of all that was once!”

In his emotion Giovanni slipped from the low chair and knelt beside his wife, one arm still around her.  The shock of disappointment, in the very moment when he thought she was yielding, was almost more than he could bear.  Had not her heart grown wholly cold, the sight of his agonised face would have softened her.  She was profoundly moved and pitied him exceedingly, but she could not do more.

“Giovanni—­do not look at me so!  If I could!  If I only could—­”

“Are you made of stone?” he asked, in a voice choking with pain.

“What can I do!” she cried in despair, sinking back and hiding her face in her hands.  She was in almost as great distress as he himself.

“Love me, Corona!  Only love me, ever so little!  Remember that you loved me once—­”

“God knows how dearly!  Could I forget it, I might love you now—­”

“Oh, forget it then, beloved!  Let it be undone.  Let the past be unlived.  Say that you never loved me before, and let the new life begin to-day—­can you not?  Will you not?  It is so little I ask, only the beginning.  I will make it grow till it shall fill your heart.  Sweet love, dear love! love me but enough to say it—­”

“Do you think I would not, if I could?  Ah, I would give my whole life to bring back what is gone, but I cannot.  It is dead.  You—­ no, not you—­some evil thing has killed it.  Say it?  Yes, dear, I would say it—­I will say it if you bid me.  Giovanni, I love you—­ yes, those are the words.  Do they mean anything?  Can I make them sound true?  Can I make the dead alive again?  Is it anything but the breath of my lips?  Oh, Giovanni, my lost love, why are you not Giovanni still?”

Again his arms went round her and he pressed her passionately to his heart.  She turned pale, and though she tried to hide it, she shrank from his embrace, while her lips quivered and the tears of pain started in her eyes.  She suffered horribly, in a way she had never dreamed of as possible.  He saw what she felt and let her fall back upon the cushions, while he still knelt beside her.  He saw that his mere touch was repugnant to her, and yet he could