“I used to think of him,” she pursued, dropping her voice and moving closer to me, “I used to think of him when Percival left me alone at night to go among the Opera people.  I used to fancy what I might have been if it had pleased God to bless me with poverty, and if I had been his wife.  I used to see myself in my neat cheap gown, sitting at home and waiting for him while he was earning our bread—­sitting at home and working for him and loving him all the better because I had to work for him—­seeing him come in tired and taking off his hat and coat for him, and, Marian, pleasing him with little dishes at dinner that I had learnt to make for his sake.  Oh!  I hope he is never lonely enough and sad enough to think of me and see me as I have thought of him and see him!”

As she said those melancholy words, all the lost tenderness returned to her voice, and all the lost beauty trembled back into her face.  Her eyes rested as lovingly on the blighted, solitary, ill-omened view before us, as if they saw the friendly hills of Cumberland in the dim and threatening sky.

“Don’t speak of Walter any more,” I said, as soon as I could control myself.  “Oh, Laura, spare us both the wretchedness of talking of him now!”

She roused herself, and looked at me tenderly.

“I would rather be silent about him for ever,” she answered, “than cause you a moment’s pain.”

“It is in your interests,” I pleaded; “it is for your sake that I speak.  If your husband heard you——­”

“It would not surprise him if he did hear me.”

She made that strange reply with a weary calmness and coldness.  The change in her manner, when she gave the answer, startled me almost as much as the answer itself.

“Not surprise him!” I repeated.  “Laura! remember what you are saying—­you frighten me!”

“It is true,” she said; “it is what I wanted to tell you to-day, when we were talking in your room.  My only secret when I opened my heart to him at Limmeridge was a harmless secret, Marian—­you said so yourself.  The name was all I kept from him, and he has discovered it.”

I heard her, but I could say nothing.  Her last words had killed the little hope that still lived in me.

“It happened at Rome,” she went on, as wearily calm and cold as ever.  “We were at a little party given to the English by some friends of Sir Percival’s—­Mr. and Mrs. Markland.  Mrs. Markland had the reputation of sketching very beautifully, and some of the guests prevailed on her to show us her drawings.  We all admired them, but something I said attracted her attention particularly to me.  ‘Surely you draw yourself?’ she asked.  ’I used to draw a little once,’ I answered, ‘but I have given it up.’  ’If you have once drawn,’ she said, ’you may take to it again one of these days, and if you do, I wish you would let me recommend you a master.’  I said nothing—­you know why, Marian—­and