#'339

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS,

"La vie complete! C'est le programme de la renaissance. II est bon que Tame
essaie de toutes les attitudes. II est bon que 1'homme multiplie ses sentimens et ses
pense'es ; les esprits et les coaurs en friche ne sont pas agre'ables a Dieu. II est bon
que rhomme sache rire, aussi bien que pleurer ; si le travail et la douleur sont sacre's,
les plaisirs purs n'ont rien qui offense la supreme sagesse.''

"Hast thou suffered?"

"No."

" Then this book is not for thee."

BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,

LATE TICKNOR & FIELDS, AND FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co.

1871.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871,

BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO.,
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & Co.,
CAMBRIDGE.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE

I. HELMSFORD HALL 1

n. HELMSFORD RECTORY 2

III. THE HEIR OF HELMSFORD 4

IV. HOW CARELESSLY WE GO TO MEET pUR FATE .... 5

V. OXLY A DEAD LEAF 7

VI. " Two LIVES so NEARLY JOINED IN ONE " 9

VII. THE STORY OF MONA 10

VIII. " O LIFE, so STREET AND YET so SAD ! " 14

IX. " AND TIME SWINGS WIDE HIS OUTWARD GATE" . . . .16

X. CHATEAU LE COMPTE 19

XL AM I TO BLAME? 22

XII. TOMBS AND PICTURES 25

XIII. IN SEARCH F HAPPINESS 29

XIV. SANTO SPIRITO 33

XV. SAN MICHELE 36

XVI. VILLA ALDOBRANDINI '40

XVII. CAPELLA DEL CORO 42

XVIII. IL MAESTRO . . . 46

XIX. MP.S. TREMAINE AND THE PRINCE CONTI 49

XX. A USELESS QUEST 53

XXI. AM I WORTHY TO BE YOUR FRIEND? 56

XXII. WAS IT POVERTY OR SHAME ? 59

XXIII. LET ME LIVE IN THE PRESENT 61

XXIV. THE RETREAT OF A SUFFERING HEART 63

XXV. THE CHARITY OF THE WORLD . 65

XXVI. I SEEM TO HAVE HEARD THAT VOICE BEFORE .... 69

XXVII. LADY DINSMORE AND THE MAESTRO 70

XXVIII. ONLY A LITTLE MARBLE CROSS 73

2051114

iv CONTENTS.

XXIX. THE TIDE THAT BEARS us ON 77

XXX. ALL is OVER BETWEEN us FOREVER 81

XXXI. WHY? ... 84

XXXII. BY THE SEA 86

XXXIII. SANS Souci 89

XXXIV. THE KOMANCE OF LADY DINSMORE'S LIFE .... 93

XXXV. HOW IT ENDED 96

XXXVI. I HAVE LOVED YOU FROM THE FIRST 98

XXXVII. THE BATTLE OF CASTEL FIDARDO 101

XXXVIII. AT LAST PACE TO FACE - 103

XXXIX. UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE MOON ....... 106

XL. RICHARD VANDELEUR'S REPARATION . . .' . . . 108

XLI. THE CONVENT OF THE SACRE CCEUR ... . . . .113

XLII. NEITHER POVERTY NOR* SHAME 116

XLIII. UNDER THE LIGHT OF STARS 120

XLIV. SHE SMILED IN THE FACE OF DEATH 124

XLV. HELMSFORD HALL .... . .126

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

CHAPTER I

HELMSFORD HALL.

HELMSFORD HALL, and the family
of Vandeleur, dated back to the reign
of Henry VI. There seemed to be a
strange fatality connected with the birth
of sons, for never but one in each genera-
tion lived to reach his majority. It was
always Richard Vandeleur of Helmsford,
the name of father and son since the earliest
records of the family.

In remote generations there had been
many lovely daughters who had married and
given children to the noble house, but not
to the proud name.

It was a tradition in the family, that, when
the War of the Roses ended, and Henry VII.
presented his trusty servant and friend,
Richard Vandeleur, with the broad lands of
Helmsford, he had also offered him a title,
which the brave soldier sturdily refused,
preferring to be simply Richard Vandeleur,
gentleman ; and so it had been for all these
generations.

In all England there was not a more
beautiful estate than Helmsford, or a more
imposing country mansion than Helmsford
Hall, a substantial gray stone construc-
tion, of mixed architecture. Around its three
sides ran two rows of open porticos, the
lower Doric, the upper Ionic. A double
flight of massive stone steps led to the
grand entrance, on either side of which
were couchant lions, holding between their
paws tablets bearing the family coat of arms.

From its high position it commanded a
magnificent view of distant mountains, hills,
and valleys, and, far beyond, the broad, open
sea. In the middle landscape were miles of
rich meadow land, dotted here and there with
the white cottages of the happy farmers of
England. Directly under the eye the broad
park and terraced gardens of Helmsford,
ornamented with fountains and statues, in
the midst of which swept two broad carriage
drives from the terraces to the massive
gates, bordered on each side with stately
oaks and elms. Whichever way the eye
turned, one saw the verdant representatives
1

of every clime, pines from the dreary
north, magnolia and ilex from the sunny
south, and palms from the far-off tropics.

On this day, April 6, 18, there was the
confusion of excited expectation in the ap-
pearance of all that appertained to the
mansion. For eight years it had been closed,
but to-day windows and doors are thrown
open, and servants pass in and out with that
air of importance that plainly foretells a
coming event, for to-night Richard Vnnde-
leur, the heir and last of his name, returns
to Helmsford, after an absence of eight
years. Within the mansion are unmistaka-
ble signs of great joy : the furniture, pic-
tures, and mirrors have laid aside their linen
shrouds, and reveal themselves in all their
original freshness to the admiring eyes of
the new servants. The stately butler is
everywhere, giving orders in a kindly, pat-
ronizing tone, detecting with equal alac-
rity a speck of dust in the grand saloon or
an unsavory odor in the kitchen.

As the day draws to a close, the house-
keeper, in stiff silk, rustles from room to
room to see that'all is in perfect order. Slu
stops for a moment in the grand corridor,
where hang the family portraits, and as s-lu
regards the bewitching face of the last Mrs,
Vandeleur, she sighs and says audibly :

" This reminds me of thirty-four years
ago, when we were expecting Mr. Vande-
leur and his bride. My poor father was
butler then, and I was a slip of a girl wild
with delight because there was to be some
stir in the house. How lovely the looked
that night as ?he stepped out of the car-
riage and came tripping up to the door, with
a sweet smile and gentle word to all ! Ah,
how soon her bright eyes closed on her
young life, leaving the little wailing baby,
and my poor master heart-broken ! Though
he lived ten years after her death, I never
saw him smile in all that time. The day
she went out of the door in her coffin, sad-
ness seemed to enter, for ever since all has
been dull and gloomy. "If Mr. Vandeleur
were only bringing a young wife home with
him, things might bo different, but as it is I
fear he will be off again to foreign countries.
He 's not like his father, the quiet of the

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

old hall and the dull country life docs n't
suit him. He has only spent a few weeks
here since he left college, and then he was
always discontented and restless. The
Vandeleurs have always been so steady
and domestic, married young, and lived the
lives of quiet country gentlemen ; but Mr.
llichard is not like them, he prefers his
roving life and foreign hotels to his ewn
elegant home, and he has already passed
his thirtieth year, and yet seems no nearer
taking a wife than he did at twenty. If he
dies without marrying, what will become of
the estate ? There are no Vandeleurs to
inherit it. It must go to some distant fe-
male branch, and the name will become
extinct."

Just then the sound of carriage wheels
was heard on the gravel below, and the
old lady finished her soliloquy as she has-
tened down the stairs, that she might be the
first to welcome her master.

CHAPTER II.

HELJISFORD RECTORY.

THE slanting rays of the setting sun
stole into the west windows of Helms-
ford rectory, and rested for a moment like
golden arrows on the white hair of Mr.
Wilbreham, as he lay back in his arm-chair,
comfortably enjoying his after-dinner nap.

The room was furnished with comfort,
taste, and elegance. Pictures of no little
merit adorned the walls, and graceful stat-
uettes the niches. In the windows were
stands filled with rare flowers, that flooded
the room with a faint delicious odor. A soft
carpet in which the pervading color was a
warm mossy green, furniture of dark ruby
velvet, and curtains of the same rich hue,
made the whole as perfect in tone and
detail as English drawing-rooms usually are.
A bright fire burned in an open steel grate,
for the evening was chilly, and a beautiful
spaniel lay in the warmth on a tiger-skin
at his master's feet.

Mr. Wilbreham moved slightly in his
sleep as the door was softly opened and a
young girl entered. At first, in the half-
light, it was difficult to see what her face
was like ; but as she walked with a languid
grace toward the window, and stood with
her eyes fixed sadly and dreamily on the
distant clouds tinged with the last faint
radiance of the setting sun, there was
something in her tout ensemble that almost
startled one with its strange beauty and
gentle grace. She was dressed in rich
black silk that trailed behind her in heavy
folds ; a plain, tight-fitting corsage reveal-
ed the perfect proportions of the elegant

shoulders, bust, and round, slender waist ;
a collar of delicate lace fastened with a jet
pin encircled the throat, and cuffs of the
same finished the sleeves, tight fitting at the
Lands, which were perfect in shape, white,
and almost childish in their dimpled beauty.
How can I portray her face ? It had that
rare and subtile charm that always defies
description, a broad, low forehead, from
which was turned back like a coronet heavy
waves of* hair that, at the first glance, ap-
peared black, but in the light was a bronze
brown ; a complexion as lair and spotless
as a rose-leaf, with scarcely a tinge of color
in the cheeks ; eyes of bluish gray, long in
shape, with slightly drooping lids fringed
with lashes so dark they gave a shadowy
softness to that part of her face ; the brows
were the color of her lashes, slightly arched,
with that mournful droop at the temples
one notices in the lovely face of the French
Empress ; her nose was straight, and in the
high spirited curves of the nostrils was
just a little expression of scorn ; but perhaps
in her mouth lay the beauty, the rare
charm and fascination of her face. Her
upper lip, short and rather thin, but exqui-
sitely chiselled in arch curves, was almost
lost in iaint crimson lines in the dimpled
corners ; the under lip was full and passion-
ate, yet there was something inexpressibly
sad and sweet in the whole, something
of that grieved, childish expression that one
notices in the sad and touching face of the
Beatrice Cenci.

Constance Wilbreham, until her four-
teenth year, had lived a life of childish,
unalloyed happiness. To a sister six years
older, and a brother who was twelve when
she was born, she had been the idol and
pet. Her mother had died at her birth,
and her father, after the loss of the wife
whom he adored, had lived the life of a
stern-ascetic. He seldom went abroad, and
only as his clerical duties demanded, and it
was rarely that visitors came to the rectory ;
so in this brother and sister her whole
young life was centred ; every innocent
joy and pleasure was connected with them.
Within three years God took them both.
First, her sister ; she came home one day
from a visit to a poor woman who was ill
with what afterward proved to be a malig-
nant fever. She complained of feeling cold,
and went to her room with burning spots
on her cheeks and racking pains in her
head. For two weeks she tossed and '
moaned in wild delirium, never for a mo-
ment recognizing the little sister who hung
over her in speechless agony. Then the
lamp waned, flickered, and went out, and
she Avas laid by her mother under the east
window of Ilelmsford church, with her feet,
that had so soon finished the journey of life,
toward the rising sun, and her fair young

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

face upturned to God, there to rest until
that morning when the sun shall shine upon
her, to set no more forever.

For months Constance was inconsolable,
scarcely eating or sleeping, wandering from
her sister's grave to her chamber, weeping
with her head upon the pillow where she
had so often rested, or pressing her tear-
stained face almost frantically to the green
sod that covered the last resting-place of
the beloved dead. If it had not been for
her brother, who, fearing grief would kill
the child, left his studies at Oxford and
devoted himself to her, she surely must
have succumbed to her deep sorrow. As
he tried every means to divert her, she
gradually became more cheerful, but never
again the light-hearted, happy child she had
been before.

Two years after, that idolized brother, in
all the strength and glory of youth, was
brought from Oxford to his childhood's
home, hopelessly insane. Over-study in
preparing to graduate had affected a ner-
vous excitable temperament, and an already
overtasked brain, so as to extinguish for-
ever the light of reason. For six months
he lingered in that terrible darkness, some-
times gentle and tractable as a child, or again
raving in the strongest and wildest delirium.

Constance scarcely left him. Even at
the worst she could soothe and calm him
with her gentle voice and tender caresses.
Sometimes the poor soul, wandering in
gloom, would seem to draw near the light
for a moment, and she would believe he
recognized her ; then she would pray in an
agony of hope and desire that God would
restore his reason, if only long enough for
them to receive his farewell. But that mo-
ment never came. And as she looked upon
him rigid in death she would moan, " O, if
he had only known me before he died ! "

It was then that all the hei-oic in the
young girl's nature was called into action,
as she was obliged to turn from the death-
bed of her brother to the sick-bed of her
. father, who found no strength in his creeds,
neither in his ascetic life, to support him
under this last blow. Constance, in the
great fear that he too might be taken from
her, and she be left alone in the world, for-
got her own sorrow to minister to him, and
lure him back to life. Not until she found
her father once more in his accustomed
health did she pause to look on the utter
desolation of her heart. There was in her
nature great power ami strength of endur-
ance, yet deep abysses of sadness, and keen
susceptibilities of suffering. If no slonns
had passed over her, the ibrce of her char-
acter would never have been tested, and
she might have lived in ignorance of her
own heroic fortitude. Nevertheless, these
bitter experiences left a shadow on her life

that time and after happiness never entirely
effaced.

To Mr. Wilbrcham the loss of this son,
his pride and hope for the future, was un-
doubtedly the deepest sorrow of his life;
but it was a sorrow that softened him. He
came out of his affliction more charitable,
more gentle, and more companionable.
This was indeed a blessing to Constance;
the tendrils of her young life, which had
been so rudely torn from the supporting
tree, must needs find another trunk around
which to twine. So she became to her
father, now no longer stern and silent, but
almost childlike in his dependent clinging
affection, his constant companion, his only
earthly consolation, his last and sole hope
in life.

Poor child! there were hours when in the
sadness of her heart she thought of her shat-
tered idols, and wept in bitterness because
they could not be again restored to her : but
still she took up bravely the burden of life,
and never acknowledged, even to herself,
how weary she sometimes grew in bearing
it. It was, then, no wonder, that on this
April evening, as she stood gazing into the
deepening twilight, her lovely face bore the
marks of subdued sorrow and sad, sweet
patience.

Nearly three years had passed since her
brother's death, and neither outwardly nor
inwardly had she laid aside her mourning,
and there were times when she longed, with
an inexpressible longing, once more to hear
his voice, and to see his happy face, as she
remembered him before sorrow had dark-
ened their home ; but she tried resolutely to
stifle the yearning cries of her heart, and
to look steadily forward to the time when
she should see him again radiant with im-
mortality.

" How papa sleeps ! " she said softly, as
she turned from the darkened window and
paced slowly back and forth in the gather-
ing shadows. " Ah me, how sad I am to-
night! I wonder what new trouble is com-
ing upon me. I feel a foreboding I cannot
shake off. Or am I getting nervous ? or
perhaps I study too much. I know Dr. Bur-
nett would say I had taken German meta-
physics in too large doses. Well, it may
be ; but I like study ; it is my greatest re-
lief. This stagnant life would kill me in
a lit lit; while if I did not work. And I
believe it is better to wear out than to rust
out."

Walking languidly to the piano, she sat
down, and, touching a few minor chords, she
sang in a low voice, Una J-\>f//in, from //
'I'rurntore. And as she repeated the words

" II tuo destine tanto somiglia al mio "

the tears started to her eyes, and, covering
her lace with her hands, she wept silently.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

Suddenly, on the evening air, from the
tower of Helmsfbrd church, sounded the
clamor of bells. Mr. Wilbreham, startled
from his sleep, inquired of Constance what
it meant.

" Why, papa," she said, " have you for-
gotten ? They ring to welcome Mr. Van-
deleur home."

CHAPTER III.

THE HEIR OF HELMSFORD.

fT>HE morning sun shone broadly over
J_ Helmsford as Richard Vandeleur walked
on the highest terrace, lazily smoking his
after-breakfast cigar, and looking with an
expression half of dissatisfaction, half of
pride, on the broad acres before him. There
was much in his appearance that denoted
his character. The broad, full forehead,
and square, firm chin, showed intellect and
power; the extreme sweetness of the blue
eyes, half mirthful and half sad, gene-
rosity and kindliness; the straight aristo-
cratic nose, pride, and contempt of the
world's opinion ; the mouth, which was
rather sensual, portrayed all the weakness
and love of pleasure that made him a Syba-
rite in his tastes and habits ; his form was
perfect, from his elegant shoulders to his
slender foot; his face was cleanly shaven,
save a heavy brown mustache, slightly
curved upward at the ends ; his hair was
several shades lighter, and, cut close, lay in
short thick waves, except around the fore-
head, which a premature baldness had left
a liltle bare ; the lower part of his face be-
ing browned by exposure to foreign suns re-
deemed his complexion from a whiteness
almost effeminate.

There was a sort of lazy grace in his man-
ner, a well-bred ease that marked him at
once as a man of fashion as well as a per-
son of wealth and leisure. His character
was one of those strange anomalous com-
binationsvof good and evil, - a sensuous na-
ture, alive to beauty in every form ; selfish
and indolent, yet brave and generous ; self-
ish if anything interfered with his self-grat-
ification ; generous, perhaps, because it cost
him no self-sacrifice ; brave, because it was
a natural inheritance of the Vandeleurs. A
keen, brilliant wit, that saw through the sub-
terfuges of life, and held up hypocrisy and
deceit to severe and withering scorn. What
he affected to despise in men was the cow-
ardice that made them fear to meet the con-
sequences of their own acts, and a cringing
subserviency to the opinion of the world.

In his life he had accomplished but little,
and denied himself but little. He had
seized the cups of pleasure as they were

presented to him, drained them to the dregs,
and flung them away, weary and disgusted,
because he found no sweetness in them.
He had graduated from Cambridge with
some honor, because, with good natural
abilities and a brilliant and decisive in-
tellect, he had found study but little labor.
With much wealth at his command, an
unstained name, a noble person, and agree-
able, winning manners, not a restraint on
his life, master of himself and his for-
tune, he was welcome everywhere. Pride,
and perhaps the latent good in him, had pro-
vented him from becoming a thorough profli-
gate, yet he had sullied the whiteness of his
soul in more than one scene of debauchery,
and he had known the worst of life in every
land, as well as the best; and perhaps in
his secret sonl was the memory of deeds that
would not bear the closest scrutiny of his
fellow-men, and even appeared ugly to his
own regard. Yet before the world Richard
Vandeleur, at thirty, bore an irreproachable
name.

There was much in the man, that, if cir-
cumstances had called it forth, might have
made him great and good. If he had been
poor, ambition would have spurred him on
to strenuous efforts for a name and position ;
but what need was there of exertion, when
birth and wealth had placed him on a high-
er pedestal than poor toiling genius ever at-
tains? One other thing might have been
the salvation of his life, it in his earlier
manhood he had found the true, strong love
of a noble woman, his equal in birth and
education, who would have encouraged him
to loftier aspirations and higher deeds, who
would have elevated him by her affection,
and taught him the purity and holiness of
love ; but such a saving angel never crossed
his path, or, if so, he had never understood
her. He had been inveigled by aspiring
mammas into tame flirtations with insipid
girls, and had been the principal actor in
not a few intrigues with married women,
and yet he had come out of the engagement
unwounded, but with a deep disgust for the
general frailty of the sex ; for, like the rest of
generous mankind, he expected to find in
the weaker vessel wine of strength enough
for both, and because he failed to do so,
he condemned all for the faults of a few,
and had decided many times, if it were
not for perpetuating the name, never to
marry.

As he sauntered back and forth on the
terrace this bright morning, one would nev-
er have imagined, from his passive face and
listless manner, how important and varied
were the thoughts that passed through his
mind. First came the far-off memories of
his childish days ; his father, always sad,
but kind ; his grief and loneliness when
death took him away; his studies at the

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

rectory, under Mr. Wilbreham, who had
been a second father to him; his college days

to Hehnsfbrd, the spirits of the Vandelcurs
would haunt me through all eternity with

their never-ceasing reproaches."

He was interrupted in his cogitations by

of grand opportunities, from which he had
gathered so few results ; then his eight

years of wandering in foreign lands; his | the appearance of his steward, with a pack-
first enthusiastic delight with the gayety of| age of papers and a portentous-looking book
Paris ; his deep draughts of pleasure, fbl- under his arm.

lowed by satiety and disgust ; his quieter
wanderings through Germany and Swit/er-

Good morning, Mr. Vandeleur," he said,
taking off his hat and making a low bow.

land; the glory of the castled cities ; the " I 'in on my way to the Hall to see if you

legends of the lovely Rhine ; the wild moun-
tains, cloud-capped; the dashing cataracts,
and the murmuring forests, that filled his soul
with deep and pure delight. Then iiis love
for Italy, the classic mourner who folds her
weeds about her and sits apart from the
world. There his heart had thrilled with
his first deep experience, as fragrant as
the wild brier, as rich and sweet as the blood

will have the goodness to coimnence looking
over the books as scon as possible, they have
been running so long."

" O, never mind the books ! " interrupted
Mr. Yandeleur. " They have done with-
out me for eight years, and I think a few
days won't make much difference. I dare
say they are all right. You have kept every-
thing in good order, and, as far as I can

of the purple grape. There his first noble | judge, the whole estate is in a flourishing

and enthusiastic desire for fame and glory,
touching every pulse of his life, and throb-
bing in every vein, brought to birth in
his young heart the ardent longing to do
something for the freedom of Italy. Then
was tha turning-point in his existence. If
a noble soul had been near him to have,
given impetus to his aspirations, he might
have done something for his fellow-men ; but
as it was, a demon in the form of a friend
urged him to a fatal mistake, that left its
blight on his whole life.

Italy was no longer to him the pure and
classic mourner for whom he longed to give
his heart's blood, bit in the secrecy of his
soul almost accursed from being the scene of
his first crime. Then he fled to Spain, with
its reckless debauchery, dark, lovely eyes,
bull-fights, and duels ; to Greece, with its
ruins and lost hopes ; and then to the sol-
emn East, with the shadows of ages hanging
over it. From the shores of the Nile to the
sepulchre of Christ he wandered, weary
and restless, seeking for forgetfulness and
happiness, but finding neither. O, how
many hours there were, in the lull of pas-
sion, in the midst of brilliant vice, when his
spirit longed to go back again to drink of
the pure, cool fountain of youth ! and yet,
lured o:a by some fatal spell, for eight
years he had wandered and sinned; and
now, in reviewing it all, there was noth-
ing from which he could glean one thrill of
joy or satisfaction. He only felt now that
it was all finished, th:it the best part of
his life was gone, and Time had found him
deeply his debtor. He must decide upon
some future course. He must give up his
old Bohemian life, so careless and free,
marry some good, patient English girl, and
settle down into a respectable country gen-
tleman. " Bah ! " he thought, with a feel-
ing of disgust, " what a life! I shall rust
out in no time. But I can't live always,
and if I should die without leaving an heir

condition. I have no time now. I must go at
once and pay my respects to Mr. Wilbreham.
Does he still continue in good health V "

" In tolerably good health, I believe, sir,
though a little feeble. He 's never been
quite the same since his son's death."

The steward waited for a reply ; but as
Mr. Vandeleur seemed lost in thought he
turned away with a sigh of disappointment,
for he dearly liked a gossip, and he felt he
had missed a chance. As he walked slow-
ly away, Mr. Vandeleur called after him,
' I will look over the books some other day,
when I feel more up to it."

Then he added mentally, as he went
towards the Hall, " What a bore business is !
I hate the sight of an account-book. Yes, 1
must go directly to the rectory. My little
pet, Constance, must be a young lady now;
I wonder what she is like. She was a love-
ly child. I dare say she is engaged to some
country curate before this ; if not. she is no
longer my little pet, but a dignified young
lady, visiting charity schools, making flan-
nel frocks for the poor, and tea for her

father, with
what a life ! '

equal patience. Poor girl,

CHAPTER IV.

HOW CARELESSLY WE GO TO MEET OUIl

niCIIARD VANDELEUR sat in the
JL\ rectory parlor, awaiting the appear-
ance of Mr. Wilbreham.

How familiar everything looks!" he
thought, as he glanced around the 1 well-or-
dered room, so elegant, so refined, and so
tranquil. ''The same subduing influence
steals over me that always did when I came
here, a wild boy, to con my lessons. Can it
be that so many years have passed, and I
only am changed ? No, outwardly all is the

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

same, but where is the gentlewoman who
was all the mother I ever knew, the golden-
haired little girl, and the bright, active boy ?
Gone, all gone, one after another; and yet
her chair stands there in the very place it
used to, and there is the stool the child so
often knelt upon to lay her lovely head in
her mother's lap. And Mr. Wilbreham's
chair in the other corner, that we so often
hung over, our eager, boyish heads pressed
together above some book he held in his
hand, which amused while it instructed us."

His revery was interrupted by the slight
rustling of a dress, and through the open
garden door there entered a girl so lovely
that his astonishment almost startled him
out of his usual well-bred ease. As he arose
and bowed, she came calmly forward, with
graceful self-possession, and held out her
hand kindly, as to an old friend.

" Who can this lovely creature be ? " he
thought, as he looked at her with a troubled
doubt in his face.

" I see you do not recognize me, Mr. Van-
deleur," she said. " Can it be you have
forgotten your troublesome little playmate ?"

" Constance ! " he exclaimed. " Miss
Wilbreham ! Is it possible ? But do not
think me forgetful when I cannot discern in
the charming young lady before me one
trace of the little pet I left eight years ago.
I had not thought, I avow, that while time
had been buffeting and damaging me, he had
been more generous to you, and had un-
folded my little rosebud into the fairest
flower that ever bloomed."

" Pray do not flatter me, Mr. Vandeleur ;
you knew me too long ago to resort now to
the usages of fashionable society. Eight
years must have changed us all in some re-
spects, or else time were useless. Do be
seated. Papa will be with us directly. I
expect him every moment from the vestry."

Her manner was so calm, so quiet, so self-
possessed, and yet, withal, so frank and
sweet, that she completely disarmed the man
of fashion. He knew at once all his well-
turned compliments and polite phrases
would be wasted on the girl before him, in
whose face he saw an intelligence and sin-
cerity too exalted for the banter of ordinary
society. " Can it be possible," he thought,
"that this elegant young lady is the little
child I held on my knee, and romped and
played with, only a few years ago? Every-
thing about her is perfect, from the waves
of her glossy hair to the folds of her white
dress ; from the belt that encircles her
waist to the toe of her slipper ; so refined,
so pure, so simple."

While regarding her a new and strange
emotion swept over him, a feeling half of
awe and half of self-abasement ; a holy rever-
ence, such as one might experience in the
presence of an angel. And for the first

time in his life he felt that he could kneel
to the purity of a woman, the woman who
was henceforth to change his whole des-
tiny.

This new sensation troubled and entan-
gled his ever-available wit, so that he found
! it difficult to frame the commonplaces he
' always gave utterance to with such facil-
ity.

He was glad when Mr. Wilbreham en-
tered, and the conversation changed the
current of his thoughts.

The voice of the poor old rector was
broken with emotion, and he could scarcely
restrain his tears when he saw before him,
in the full flush of health and manhood, one
who had been the constant companion of
his dead son, who had shared with him
in all his boyish sports and more mature
studies. Their young heads had bent over
the same books, their fresh voices had min-
gled in the same free games. For three
years that beloved voice had been silent.
The brilliant intellect, the strong, vigor-
ous frame, had perished at a stroke, while
this man, who had wandered far and
wide, and encountered danger in every
form, stood before him, a strong contrast
to his own blighted hopes.

Richard Vandeleur felt a choking sen-
sation in his throat, and a dimness of vision,
as he witnessed the grief of his old tutor,
and the heroic efforts of Constance to con-
trol herself and soothe the agitation of her
father.

After a few moments Mr. Wilbreham re-
gained his calmness, and spoke witli resig-
nation of his deep affliction. Then the con-
versation turned on indifferent subjects, and
Mr. Vandeleur, more at his ease, gave charm-
ing accounts of his travels, of foreign life
and manners, of the people he had met,
the books he had read, the works of art he
had seen, of his wanderings in the East; of
his half-Arab life in Arabia, his half-gypsy
life in Spain ; and of his more refined asso-
ciations with the most brilliant cities in Eu-
rope ; to all of which Constance listened
with pleased interest, and he was not a little
surprised at the knowledge her questions
and remarks evinced. He saw at once 'she
had read and studied much, and that her
mind was as perfect as her person.

When the conversation turned upon mu-
sic, the girl became enthusiastic ; her cheeks
flushed, and her eyes beamed with interest,
as they discussed their favorite composers.

He asked her to sing. With modest readi-
ness she seated herself at the piano, and
sang with exquisite taste a difficult Italian
composition.

"You understand Italian," lie said when
she had finished. " You pronounce it with
the purity of a native."

" O no ! " she replied, smiling ; " but I

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

love the divine language of Dante, and I
try to mutilate it as little as possible."

" Constance has had a French governess
who lived many years in Italy, and sin-
speaks both French and It-dian with flu-
ency," observed Mr. Wilbreham.

After a little more desultory conversa-
tion, and an invitation to dinner, which
he accepted for the next day, Mr. Van-
deleur took his leave, and walked slowly
towards the Hall in deep thought; and
his thoughts put into words would read
like this :

"Is it possible that I, who have seen and
known the most celebrated beauties of Eu-
rope, and have not been troubled with any
twinges of the tender passion, should, after
one hour's interview, be in love with this
girl whom I have carried in my arms a
baby ? No, no ; it is too ridiculous, and yet
I cannot drive her from my thoughts. How
lovely she is ! A Carlo Dolce type of beau-
ty. By Jove ! she is as superior to any wo-
man I have ever met, as moonlight is to a
glow-worm. There is one thing certain, if I
can win her, she shall be my wile before the
next harvest moon." And then a hateful
memory wrenched his heart, and his face
grew white for a moment. " But what have
I to give worthy of that pure young life V
Nothing ! nothing but dregs ! My God !
how she would shrink from me if she could
read the blurred page of my past ! I won-
der if it is ever possible to wipe out all and
begin anew ? Yes, with her I think I might
renew something of the purity of my youth.
O, if I were only twenty ! Why, I was an
angel then, compared to what I am now. It
is strange, but I believe for the first time I
see myself in my true colors, and they are
anything but lovely. But I will never de-
ceive her. No, I will tell her all, and then,
if she will marry me, she shall be my wife
before the next harvest moon."

And with this resolution his step grew
lighter, and he walked almost briskly up the
broad avenue to the Hall, thinking, as he
went, of the improvements he should make
when Constance became its mistress.

It was very strange how short a time had
reconciled him to living; at Helmsford.

CHAPTER V.

ONLY A DEAD LEAF.

NEARLY five months had passed since
Richard Vandeleur's return to Helms-
ford. It was the evening of an excessively
hot day in August, and he and Constance
were slowly walking back and forth on the
lawn before the open door, engaged in
earnest conversation. Mr. Wilbreham was

sleeping as usual at that hour and Ma'Iame
Landel, governess, friend, and companion to
Constance, was sitting near the open win-
dow, a book in her hand, but her eyes fixed
meditatively on tlie distant clouds.

She was a quiet little woman, neatly
dressed in black, with bands of soft gray
hair simply arranged under a plain cap.
The childless widow of a French ollicer, sin;
had known much sorrow, and had passed
the most of her life in journeying from one
country to another, never knowing a home,
and scarcely remaining long enough in one
place to form those friendly ties which are
so dear, and withal so necessary to a wo-
man's happiness; yet her placid brow and
patient face bore scarcely a sign of her sad
experience. For nearly eight years she had
found a congenial home in Mr. Wilbreham's
family, and an intelligent and affectionate
pupil in Constance.

The day had been sultry and oppressive,
but, now, refreshed by the dew and the soft
breeze, the languid flowers raised their bent
heads, and gave forth their delicious odor
with unsparing bounty. The west was all
aglow with the gorgeous evening drapery of
the sun ; and the full yellow moon rose se-
renely above the row of tall poplars that di-
vided the rectory garden from the church-
yard, and which Constance always likened
unto grim sentinels standing between the
living and the dead. It was one of those
hours when all nature, and even the unquiet
heart of man, is lulled into a dreamy pence ;
and Constance, leaning on the arm of Mr.
Vandeleur, and listening to his words of
tender devotion, felt that, at last, her rest-
less heart had found repose in his love.
Her sweet mouth had lost its curves of sor-
row, the limpid eyes their dreamy abstract-
ed expression ; and now her whole face
beamed with an almost childish gladness
as she listened to his plans for their fu-
ture. His tenderness and devotion filled
the void in her life that had been left deso-
late by the death of those she loved, and al-
ready her fond young heart clung to him
with that blind trust, that unsuspecting and
unquestioning confidence, which is a wo-
man's rarest charm. Her pure and stainless
nature knew nothing of the world, and she
supposed the past life of the man she lined
to have been as true and irreproachable as
the present seemed, under her ennobling
influence.

They were to<be married in September,
much to Mr. Wilbreham's satisfaction, who,
knowing himself to be failing daily, desired
to see his daughter happily married before
his departure.

If he had been permitted to select a hus-
band for his daughter from all young Eng-
land, Richard Vandeleur would have been
his choice before any other. As his tutor

WO VEX OF MANY THREADS.

and guardian, he always felt for the way-
ward boy something of the love of a father ;
and now that he was to be the husband of
his child, he outwardly gave him the place
of his dead son in his affection. Every cir-
cumstance in this case seemed to combine
to render the course of true love smooth, and
perhaps thcie was never a brighter prospect
for happiness than that of the lovely girl
who leaned so trustingly on the arm of the
man who she thought was to share her fu-
ture life.

And Richard Vandeleur, was he hap-
py ? Yes, at times supremely happy. Yet
there were moments in the stH night, in
the early dawn, when a hateful memory
tugged at his heart, until his cheek grew
white, and the dew of agony gathered on
his brow.

"Tell her! tell her all!" pleaded the
voice of conscience, with urgent importunity.
Then he would rise up exhausted with
the struggle, but resolved to tell her* all
his terrible history, and so test her love for
him.

" If she loves me truly and unselfishly,"
he would reason, " she will forgive the follies
of the past, and trust me for the future.
Yes, it will be well to test her love ; if her
affection is sincere, she will Jove me none
the less, but will rather respect me more,
that I have had the moral courage to con-
fess all to her."

His resolution now was as strong as that
which he had made the first day of their
acquaintance. Yet, when once in her pres-
ence, his good resolves would vanish, and
he would say inwardly, ' No, no, I cannot.
I love her, O my God ! how I love her !
The fear of losing her maddens me, and I
prefer any concealment, rather than to in-
cur her contempt. If I tell her, she may de-
spise and hate me. No, I cannot lose her ;
her love is the only pure affection I have
ever known, and I must keep it, even at the
price of concealment."

Yet this evening, stronger than ever, the
importunate voice was heard, even above
the clear tones of Constance, and for the
first time in her presence his brow dark-
ened with sombre thoughts.

" Why are you so serious, Richard ? " she
said, with a little laugh. " Are you regret-
ting that you shall lose your liberty so
soon ? "

" No, my darling," he replied with deep
tenderness. " I am only anxious ' to wear
your easy chains ; but I was thinking," he
cried, with a sudden burst of passionate
emotion, " I was thinking if there was any
circumstance, any possibility, that could sep-
arate us."

" Separate us ! What can you mean ? "
she said, with trembling anxiety. " No,
surely nothing, unless God should take one

of us ; and you know, dear, we must not
question his will."

They walked on in silence, down a shady
path, until they reached a low wall that di-
vided Helmsford Park from the rectory gar-
den. There they paused ; and Mr. Vande-
leur, drawing Constance to his side, and look-
ing earnestly into the lovely eyes raised to
his, said in a strangely troubled voice, " And
nothing could tear you from me, my sweet
darling ? "

" Nothing, dear, but death, or" she hesi-
tated " or the knowledge of some crime."
His cheek whitened as though a spasm of
mortal agony had passed over him.

" But why talk of this ? Are you too
happy, that you must cloud our joy by fan-
cying impossibilities '? As long as we love
each other, nothing can part us. But I
have been thinking, too," she said in a
lighter voice ; " I have been thinking how
strange you never loved before. In all the
countries you have visited, among all the
lovely women you have me't, it is strange,
certainly, you have never found one whom
you loved. Richard, are you sure," she
said, earnestly looking him in the face,
" are you sure you have never loved before? "

Then a memory rushed upon him, a mem-
ory as fragrant as the wild brier, as sweet
as the blood of the purple grape ; a pair of
dreamy, dark eyes, filled with the passion
of Southern climes, flashed fire through
every vein, and a voice of exquisite tone
startled him with its melody. " No, no,"
he thought with a shudder. " That was not
love, it was passion. I have never loved be-
fore." And he replied, with a voice as
calm as though no mighty emotion had
swept over his soul :

" No, Constance, I have never loved be-
fore ; you are my first, as you will be my
only love. The human heart is capable of
such an affection but once ; and remember,"
he continued, with a solemnity she thought of
long after, "remember, whatever may hap-
pen, I have loved only you. My life until
now has been useless, worse than useless.
I have wasted my best years, and lived only
for myself. You have awakened in me new
desires and new hopes ; and only with you
and through your love can they be fulfilled.
You are my redemption; through you I
shall be saved."

" Hush ! " she said softly, laying her hand
on his lips. " You overestimate my influ-
ence. I am but a poor simple child, whom
you are good enough to love. But it' my
life's devotion can render you happy, it
shall be yours."

" Thank God ! " he exclaimed, with pas-
sionate fervor, " thank God for such a
treasure ! I will try to be worthy of this
priceless gift. The dew is falling," he said,
pressing his lips to her damp hah-, " and

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

you may take cold after the excessive heat
of the day ; let us go in." And drawing her
arm through his, they passed out of the
shadow into the moonlight ; but a gloom had
fallen upon his heart which he could not
shake off.

" After all," he thought, " why should she
know anything of my past ? It does not
concern my future. It would only ease my
conscience to make her suffer, and it could
do no good. It i.s better that I did not tell
her. Why should she know ? Yes, it is
better as it is."

A few weeks later, a wet, windy day in
September, Constance stood apparently look-
ing from her window toward Helmsford, but
actually lost in deep thought. The next
morning she was to commence her new life.
They were to be married at an early hour
in Helmsford church, and then leave direct-
ly for a short stay in London and Paris,
after which they were to return, and settle
at Helmsford. About her usually orderly
room were strewn the indications of an in-
tended journey Open boxes and travelling-
bags, dresses, bonnets, boots, gloves, laces,
ribbons, in fact, enough to stock a mod-
erate millinery establishment. Conspicuous
among them was the rich white silk dress
and delicate veil, which had just arrived from
London. She had tried them on, and laid
them away with a sort of dreary dejection the
occasion little warranted, and which, in spita
of the excitement of the moment, she could
not overcome.

Madame Landel had left her, in the midst
of her packing, to give some orders below;
and almost before she was aware of it, Con-
stance found herself gazing from the win-
dow, as she had done for the twentieth time
that day, sad and oppressed, she could not
tell why. Was it the weather? A dull,
gray mist hung over everything; a slow
steady rain fell monotonously. A few dead
leaves swirled and turned in the wind until
they lodged in the little pools formed in the
garden path. She noted all this, as she re-
membered long after.

Turning from the window with a sigh, " I
suppose every one is a little sad the day be-
fore marriage. After all, it is a very serious
thing to change one's life so completely ; but
I must not waste any more time, when there
is so much to arrange, and Richard will be
here soon."

She walked around the room, taking up
in an aimless sort of way different articles,
and laying them down without any attempt
to put them in their respective places. A
book on the table attracted her attention.
" This," she said, " must be put into the box
to be sent to the Hall."

It was a large herbarium filled with beau-
tifully pressed flowers, which Mr. Vande-
leur had gathered in his wanderings, and
2

he had brought it for her to look at. Taking
it in her hand, some sudden feeling prompt-
ed her to glance through it again. Just as
she was doing so, she fancied she heard Mr.
Vandeleur's step on the garden walk. Turn-
ing hastily to the window, she opened it,
that she might see if he was entering the
door. Suddenly a gust of wind fluttered the
pages of the book; and a large, beautiful
leaf that had been imperfectly fastened with
gum was carried off' by the breeze cut of
the window beyond her reach. She made
no effort to recover it, but stood locking at
the page as mute and motionless as though
she had turned into stone ; for on the place
over which the leaf had been fas-tern d was
written in Italian, in a scarcely legible
hand :

" Gathered in the Villa Pamphili, and ar-
ranged for my dear husband.

" MOXA.

" ROME, April 6th. '

Only a dead leaf had hidden this terrible

secret.

CHAPTER VI.

Two lives fo nearly joined in one,
So rudely rent in twain.

A HALF-HOUR later Madame I.andel
entered the room, and Constance was
still standing where she had left her, a
book clasped in her hand, and her eyes,
fixed and tearless, gazing straight before her
into the dull, leaden sky.

" Mr. Vandeleur is in the drawing-room,
my dear. Go down to him, and I will ring
for Jane to help me fin^b your packing."

As she spoke Constance turned, the book
fell from her hand, and throwing herself on
the bosom of her friend, she cried, wiih dry,
choking sobs, " It is all over, it is all over !
I shall never be his wife ! "

" What do you mean, my child ? Are
you losing your senses V " and flie looked
with puzzled scrutiny into the white, rigid
face of the girl. She read enough there to
convince her that some terrible calamity
had occurred, and, clasping Constance in
her arms, she burst into tears.

" Tell me all, tell me all, my poor child,
and let me try to comfort you ; but do not
look so, you will break my heart ! "

" It is something dreadful, but I cannot
tell you now," she replied, in a voice of
forced calmness. " I must go to him. Is
papa with him ? "

" No, your papa is in the library. Mr.
Vandeleur is alone. But, my child, I en-
treat you to tell me what has happened."

"1 cannot now, dear madam; indeed. 1
cannot. Later I will tell you all ; but now*
I must go directly to him."

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

She stooped and picked up the book, and
turned to leave the room. When she reached
the door she looked back and said, in a calm
and far-off voice, " Put tny bridal dress out
of sight, I shall not wear it to-morrow ; and
don't do any more packing. I shall not
leave home."

Then, gently closing the door, she went
away, leaving Madame Landel half stupefied
with astonishment.

Mr. Vandeleur sat before the drawing-
room fire, awaiting the appearance of Con-
stance. The door was ajar, and he heard
the rustle of her dress as she descended the
stairs. Rising, he went forward to meet
her with extended arms and a smile of fond
welcome ; but the strange expression of her
face arrested his steps, and his arms fell mo-
tionless. Never in all his after life did he for-
get that white, sorrowful face, nor the stern,
tearless eyes that seemed to look upon him
with a scrutiny which read his inmost soul.
He knew in that moment, as well as he did
an hour after, that his sin had found him
out, and what he feared had come upon
him.

Constance closed the door behind her,
and turned the key ; then, approaching him,
she opened the book and pointed silently to
the inscription.

He read it ; a flush of crimson spread
over his face, and then faded away, leaving
him as pale as though Death had fanned
him with its white wing. Sinking into a
chair he gasped for breath, pressfng his
hands convulsively to his eyes ; for, even in
that moment, a dark, beautiful face rose
before him, and lips of childish sweetness
called him " husband," with the bewitching
accent of a foreign tongue.

" Speak," said Constance, in an imperial
tone of injured pride and innocence. " Tell
me, was that woman your wife ? "

" She believed herself to be," he replied,
in scarcely audible tones.

" Believed herself to be ! I do not un-
derstand you. Explain quickly 1 there is
no time to waste in enigmas."

" O Constance, forgive me ! " he groaned,
" forgive me ! I have deceived you ; I
have hidden from you this dark page of my
life, and now fate has revealed it."

" Can it be possible," she said, coming
nearer to him, and looking into his face with
stern sorrow, " can it be possible that you
Richard Vandeleur have won my love
and asked me to be your wife, if you are al-
ready married, and this woman still lives ? "

" No, Constance, as God is my witness,
she was not my wife ; but she believed her-
self to be."

" Oh ! " she gasped, " then there is hidden
a still darker history of crime ? "
i " Yes, a history too vile for your pure
soul to listen to. If I had not felt it to be

so, I should not have waited for fate to re-
veal it ? "

" O, why, why have you deceived me ? "
she moaned. " I was strong enough to have
heard the truth ; but tell me now, tell me
all. This is no time to talk conventionali-
ties. I alone must hear this story, none
other but me ; and I alone must decide on
the result."

" O my God ! " he cried, starting up and
pacing the floor almost frantically, " I can-
not, I cannot confess to you a crime that I
fear will separate us forever ! "

" Look at me," she said, calmly and gen-
tly. "I am young and a woman; my bur-
den will be heavy to bear, and I must soon
bear it alone. Then have pity on me
and spare me all useless agitation ; for,
indeed, I have need of strength and tran-
quillity."

" Poor, poor child, so young, so innocent,
how the knowledge of this will shake your
faith in the truth of humanity ! but I will
tell you all, and you shall be my judge. I
will receive my sentence from your lips,
whatever it may be, without a murmur ; but
O Constance, I beseech you to be merciful.
Remember how young I was, my motherless
childhood, my unrestrained life, and my
great temptation. These are the only ex-
tenuating circumstances I have to offer.
Listen, and, as you hope for mercy from
God, be also merciful to me.''

He took her cold hand in his and led her
to a chair, and then, standing before her,
with his proud head bowed as one already
condemned, and his voice hoarse and broken
with emotion, he told her the story of Mono.

CHAPTER VII.

THE STORY OF MONA.

"FT was my first winter in Rome. I had
JL taken an apartment in an old palace,
with my friend, the Count de Villiers. I
had met him in Paris the year before, and
we had formed one of those friendships
which so often exist between a man of years
and experience and a youth new to the
world and its temptations. Hubert de Vil-
liers was fifteen years my senior, a calm,
clear intellect ; a cold brilliant wit ; fearless
and brave ; generous to a fault ; but without
the slightest belief in anything pure or good.
He laughed at virtue ; he styled religion an
ignorant superstition of bygone ages, and
love a fable and a myth ; he scoffed at what
he called the folly of self-restraint, and be-
lieved a man's chief duty was to enjoy the
good the gods gave him, without questioning
the result.

"It is needless to say he had an unbound-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

ed influence over me. I worshipped him. I
believed him superior to any one I had ever
known. I confided in his judgment, I trust-
ed in his opinion ; and if at times I thought
his morals loose, I believed them to be but
the results of the world's teaching.

" I had come from Paris a little weary ;
and, disgusted with fashionable life, resolved
to pass my time more profitably in Rome by
studying the antiquities of its art and the
remains of its lost glory. I found our home
in the sombre old palace very congenial to
my taste. There was something in the
dreamy romance of the narrow stone mul-
lioned windows, the lofty frescoed ceilings,
and the faded antique furniture, that was in
harmony with my feelings at that period.
With my books, music, and Hubert de Vil-
liers for my companion, I anticipated pass-
ing the winter in delightful tranquillity.

" One evening, just at twilight, as I en-
tered the door of 1 the palace, a creature
flitted in before me, up the broad dingy
stairs, looking back over her shoulder as
sh.3 went, and smiling in an arch innocent
way. She was about sixteen, and of most
radiant beauty, waves of glossy hair clus-
tering above a low Greek forehead, eyes of
limpid clearness, straight delicate nose, and
a mouth of infantine sweetness. I soon
learned she was the daughter of the porter ;
and after that, as she often came to our
rooms with notes and messages, I found
many opportunities of talking with her.
She was as uneducated as a child of six years.
She could neither read nor write, but was
passionately fond of music, and sang with
wonderful taste and expression many ex-
quisite Italian romances.

" I cannot describe to you the charm that
innocent, sweet child of nature exercised
upon me. It is sufficient to tell you that in
a few days I fancied myself madly in love
with her ; but now, Constance, that I have
loved you, I know the sentiment I then ex-
perienced was only passion, wild and
sweet, but neither pure nor lasting. There
was a freshness, a romance, that pleased my
youthful fancy, and, before God, I swear to
you, in the first days of my delirious love, I
did not dream of the consequences ; neither
did I intend to injure, in any way, the con-
fiding creature who I soon knew loved me
with the unquestioning trust of a child. I
devoted a part of each day to teaching her
the rudiments of education, and I was more
than repaid when I discovered how intelli-
gent and docile she was, and how she en-
deavored to please rne in every respect. I
can see hor now before me, trembling with
eager excitement, blushing, and twisting her
slender fingers as she recited with passion-
ate emphasis some romantic story or heroic
poem ; or as she leaned over the table, with
a sort of graceful awkwardness tracing her

stiff characters, which she termed writing,
looking up in my face with a shy, pleased
smile if I approved, or turning away with
tearful eyes and pouting lips if I eluded. The
poor ignorant parents left us much together,
only too proud that the grand Xif/nore no-
ticed their child. De Villiers laughed and
jeered zit my Platonic affection, often asking
me how it would end ; and, indeed, it was a
question I often put to myself for I began
to learn that this simple child of nature was
necessary to my happiness, and also that
her virtue was stronger than her love. My
passion increased day by day, until even the
thought of leaving her made me miserable.

" Already De Villiers talked of our going
from Rome, as the winter was drawing to a
close, and urged upon me the need of mak-
ing some arrangements for our spring and
summer's diversion.

" One day I said to him that I did not
wish to leave Rome so early, as I was very
happy and contented.

" ' You mean,' he said, ' that you do not
wish to leave your inamorata. If you love
her, why don't you take her with you, away
from the eyes of her father and mother ?
They will begin to suspect something soon,
and then there will be a grand row. You
had better take her off quietly while there
is a chance ; for if the curato gets a hint of
this he will shut her up in a convent, and
kill her with penances, and then you may
whistle in vain for your bird.'

" ' What do ypu mean, De Villiers ? ' I
replied ; ' the girl is virtuous, and she will
never go with me unless I marry her ; and,
dearly as I love her, I cannot bring myself
to do that.'

" ' Marry her ! ' said De Villiers, with a
French shrug, ' marry her ! Are you in-
sane ? You believe her to be virtuous,
bah I I believe her to be cunning, and her
old mother has put her up to play that
game. But, if you don't want any trouble,
why not make her believe you have married
her, and then afterwards, if you become mu-
tually tired, as you are sure to do, you can
separate, settle a little income on lur, which
will heal all wounds, and so the matter will
end.'

" I cannot tell you how much the sugges-
tion of De Villiers shocked and disgiiM. d
me at first ; for then, in spite cf this igno-
ble, passion, my soul was struggling to tree
itself from its base selfishness, and I was
hoping and dreaming that 1 might do some-
thing for my fellow-men, something for the
freedom of Italy.

"But I was young, weak, nnd passionate.
Day by day the evil suggestion grew upon
me, until, fn an hour of madness, I consented
to the crime that has worked out for mo
such a fearful punishment.

" A mutual friend, who had masqueraded

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

during Carnival as a priest, agreed to per-
form the ceremony.

" I silenced my conscience with the re-
solve, that, after I had educated her, and
taught her some of the refinements of life,
I would marry her and acknowledge her as
my wife.

" 1 told the poor child, that, on account of
my being a Protestant, the marriage must
be performed by a priest secretly, in the
private chapel of a friend ; and until I was
ready to take her to England no one must
suspect it. At first she protested she could
not ba married without the knowledge of
her parents ; but, at last, her love and my
persuasion overcame her scruples, and she
consented.

"The farce was finished; and my self-
reproach and detestation were overwhelm-
ing when the innocent creature threw her-
self on my breast, and murmured, in her
sweet, rich tones, 'Marito mio.' But it
was too late to retract, and again I silenced
my conscience by renewing my vow, that, in
the future, I would make every reparation
possible.

" Than followed days of delirious happi-
ness, stolen interviews, and secret meet-
ings, whila Da Villiers, with wonderful
ingenuity, kept all suspicion from her par-
ents. It was during these days, and in
some of our stolen walks and drives to the
neighboring villas, that she gathered these
flowers, which she afterwards arranged with
much skill and taste. And thinking, no
doubS, to surprise me soma time with this
hidden inscription, she wrote, with much
care, thesa words that years afterwards
were to reveal my crime, and indaed sur-
prise me in a manner the child little thought
of.

" More than a month had passed after the
false marriage, and I had been so blindly
happy tint 1 dare not say I had felt any re-
morse, when, ona evening, Da Villiers rushed
into my room in breathless haste, exclaim-
ing, ' Make yourself ready as quickly as
possible ! you must leave Roma to-night,
and take Mona with you. If not, she will
be in a convent to-morrow morning. 1
have overheard a conversation between the
cura'o and bar mothar, which leads me to
suppose the little fool has told something at
confession. How mush, I do not know ;
but they have decidad to send her to a con-
vent to-morrow morning, no doubt, a plan
to make you acknowledge the marriage,
which, thay think, has been performed, or
to extort a handsome sum of money for the
Church. So, you see, you have no time to
lose.'

" Two hours later, aclosod carri<4ge passed
the Porta Santa Maria Mags;iore with all
the speed possible. Within it were Mona
and myself. The poor child lay on my

breast, sobbing convulsively with sorrow at
leaving her mother, whom she loved ten-
derly, without a word of adieu. It was a
delicious moonlight night of early spring;
and as the carriage rolled smoothly over
miles of Roman campagna, she gradually
became calmer, her sobs died away, and
she slept on my breast. God knows that,
when I looked at her pale, tear-stained face,
as she lay in my arms like a weary child, I
believed I loved her ; and if she had only
been true to me, she might, indeed, have
been my wife.

" I went directly to the little bathing-
town of Pescara, on the Adriatic, where I
took a cottage for the spring and summer.
O Constance ! I thought I was happy then.
The hours passed away in a sort of dreamy
sweetness, and each day added some new
charm to the dazzling beauty of Mona.
Her youth, her gentleness, intelligence,
and purity of character, her love of study,
and, above all, her almost slavish devotion
to me, increased my affection, and taught
meevery hour how necessary she was to my
happiness. I had firmly resolved never to
reveal to her the secret of the fake marriage,
but, after the summer was over, to take her to
Florence, marry her according to the rites
of the Protestant Church, which the differ-
ence in our religion made necessary, and
then go to England, and install her as mis-
tress of Helmsford. She was naturally
refined and delicate in her tastes ; and my
constant teaching and companionship had
so improved her, I felt she would grace any
position.

" In August the Count de Villiers came
to us. I cannot say he added materially
to my happiness, for my life during four
months had been so tranquil and dreamy,
that he, fresh from the gay world, with his
irrepressible noisy mirth, rather jarred upon
my spirits, and Mona did not appear at all
pleased with the intrusion.

" However, he was my friend, and had
rendered me essential service at the time
of my flight, so I welcomed him warmly,
and established him in the most com-
fortable manner possible in a cottage near
us.

" We spent some delightful days together,
riding over the hiils, sauntering among the
olive groves, fishing, bathing, or chatting of
the past, while we smoked under the vine-
clad trellis of our little garden. In the
evening we floated on the moonlit Adriatic,
li-tening to Mona while she fang the wild
sweet songs of the Marinaro, or the more
impassioned romances'or plaintive A ves of
the Eternal City.

" One day, near the end of September, I
received a letter from Florence, where my
immediate presence was de.-ired on a mat-
ter of much importance connected with a

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

bank where I had deposited a large sum of
money.

" I scarcely had time to say farewell to
Mona, and place her in the care of De Vil-
liers, before the carriage was at the door
ready for my departure.

" The girl clung to me in the most frantic
manner, imploring me not to leave her. say-
ing she should never see me again.

" I reassured her with the most tender and
loving words, telling her I should return in
a week, and then we should never be parted
again, and that she should receive a letter
from me each day.

" She made a courageous effort to be calm,
but there was something in her face that
haunted me long after, an expression of
agony and despair, so deep, so unaffected,
that when I think of .what followed I can-
not, with all my years and experience, find
a solution to the problem of the human
heart.

" At that moment I would have staked my
life on the truth and strength of her love
and virtue.

" I never saw her again. When we parted
then, we parted forever.

" My absence was prolonged to two weeks.
At first I received a letter every day from
Mona, expressive of the deepest love and
sorrow, and the most ardent desire that I
should return. Then a week of silence,
which was followed by a letter from De
Villiers, my friend, remember, a letter
which ran thus. I have not forgotten one
word, for a long time they were stamped
upon my brain, and I saw them day and
night before me in characters of fire.

" ' All is fair in love and war, Vandeleur.
Your immaculate, innocent Mona has proved
herself to be no better than the rest of her
sex. For a few days after your departure
she was inconsolable, then she wisely con-
cluded a lover near her was better than a
dozen absent one?, and so she has kindly
permitted me to comfort her with such little
attentions as I am only too glad to bestow.
Last night she begged me, with tears, to
take her away, as she feared your return.
I have promised to do so ; and when this
reaches you, your cage will be empty, your
bird flown. I know you will be furious at
first, but after a little you will come to your
senses, and see the folly of allowing a
woman to destroy our friendship. When
we meet, which will not be for the present,
we can arrange the little matter amicably.
" ' Yours as ever,

" ' DE VILLIERS.'

" For a few moments I was stupefied at the
cool villany of the letter ; but as I re-read it
the conviction took possession of my mind
that it Avas a fraud, some test to prove my
love and my confidence in Mona. No, I

could not believe it, it was too improba-
ble.

" I immediately ordered my carriage, and
started for Pescara. When I reached the
cottage the servant came out to meot me,
with a surprised expression on her withered
face. ' Had I not met the sifjnora ? She
had left three days before, with the Sn/nor
Francese, to go to me.' And so that was
the end of my romance, my love, my trust,
my good resolutions.

" Without entering the place where I had
passed the happiest hours of my life, I turned
away, and walked for hours on the sea-shore,
pouring out my rage and di ? appointmeut to
the unheeding waves, and revolving in my
mind fearful plans of vengeance. At last I
had matured them. I determined to follow
the guilty pair, and with my own hand add
the crime of murder to my other sins.

" I hurried from the spot that -reminded me
too forcibly of my lost happiness, mad with
the thirst for the blood of my rival. From
that moment my nature changed, I lost faith
in everything, 1 became fierce, almost brutal,
in my desire for the life of De Villiers. I
rushed frantically from one part of the
country to another, seeking for this man. I
spared neither time nor money, but I never
discovered a trace of him v nor of the girl
who had so deceived me.

" More than a year passed in this useless
fever of anxiety and then I began to be
calmer and more indifferent.

" Italy was hateful to me, and, ever thirsting
for some new excitement, I commenced my
wanderings. But there were hours in the
silent night when that face of infantine
sweetness would rise before me, and the soft
tearful eyes look reproach into mine, and
then 1 would suffer the keenest remorse for
having left her exposed to the snaies of a
villain. But gradually that too passed away,
and after years I came to look upon that
episode in my life as a sweet dream of my
youth, followed by a rude awakening, the
result of all delusions.

" Now you have heard all, Constance ; can
you forgive me 1 "

His face was white and worn, and his lips
quivered with agonized emotion as he asked
the question.

Constance had listened to his recital in
perfect silence, her face buried in her hands ;
but now, as he paused for an answer, she
nrose, and, pushing back the hair from her
face, she revealed in her calm, set features
all the strength of her heroic soul.

" Yes, Richard," she said gently, laying
her cold hand on his, " yes, 1 forgive you, I
dare not condemn you, but I can never,
never be your wife."

" O Constance," he groaned, "is it possi-
ble you can decide so hastily and so cruelly t "

" Hush ! you promised to receive your

WOVEN OF MAXY THREADS.

sentence from my lips without a murmur.
Be equal to your word. I cannot be your
wife. It is impossible. You owe a solemn
duty to the poor injured child, who my
woman's heart tells me was innocent. O
man ! wise in your own conceit, but dull
and stupid to the voice of nature, do you
not know, can you not understand, that
she loved you, and, if she lives, loves you
still ? Then how could she deceive you ?
No, no, she was but the victim to the snares
and falsehood of a villain. I beseech you, as
you hope for mercy from God, to seek her
throughout the world, and, if you find her,
make her what reparation is in your power.
Nothing would induce me to become your
wife. You are no longer the Richard Van-
deleur I worshipped. In your new charac-
ter I cannot, I do not, love you. The hero,
the good, the noble, born perhaps of my own
imagination,' is no longer the man who
stands before me ; and, Richard, forgive me
if I wound you ; but I dare not unite my life
to one who has stained his soul with such a
crime. I freely pardon you, because you
have suffered, and you will suffer, but strive
to learn with me that self-abnegation brings
peace. Now listen to my last request, my
only prayer. Leave Helmsford this very
night, and do not return until we can meet
as friends. I will explain all to papa. I
can do it better than any other ; and, more
than all, I will keep this confidence sacred.
My father shall believe you what 1 have
thought you to be."

" O Constance ! " he cried, falling on his
knees, and clasping her cold hands in his, " I
beseech, I implore you, not to be so hasty
in your decision. Reflect, think what you
are doing; you are driving me from you
to endless despair. I am lost, utterly lost,
without your love."

" Rise," she said ; " this is weakness.
Be a man in your grief. Do not let it be
necessary for a woman to teach you how to
be strong. The future is before you.
Whether you ennoble or debase your soul,
your own acts will determine. If we can-
not be more to each other, make yourself
worthy to be my friend ; and believe me,"
shs added, with a smile whose divine sad-
ness and sweetness entered his soul, " we
shall both find oi\r greatest happiness in
doing our duty, a.~\d time will teach us,
that, though youth and passion have passed,
friendship may endure."

" O Constance ! " he said, " O more than
woman ! O pure, strong angel ! Now,
that I have known you, why have I known
you too late? Here, on my knees, as in
the presence of God, I swear in my future
to strive to atone for the past ; and, when
we meet again, you shall say I am
worthy to ba your friend." He arose, a
ligrht beaming from his face. " And now

farewell," he said, pressing her hands to his
lips, while the hot tears rained over them,
"farewell; and when I have conquered
myself, you shall hear from me. Pray for
me, and watch over me from afar ; aiid if
you need me, nothing but death shall keep
me from you."

He clasped her one moment in his arms,
pressed a long kiss upon her cold lips, and
then, turning away, walked from the room
with a firm step. And when the door closed
upon him, and hid him from her sight, Con-
stance threw herself on her knees and
moaned aloud in her agony.

CHAPTER VIH.

life, so sweet and yet so sad !

A FEW moments of bitter weeping, a si-
lent prayer, and Constance struggled
up beneath her burden, prepared to finish
the part she had undertaken.

The book still lay before her, open at the
fatal page. She took it to her room and
locked it in a drawer. She smoothed her
hair, bathed her eyes, and then descended
to the library to speak with her father.

When she entered he was sitting at the
writing-table, a book open before him, but
he was not reading. His face was buried in
his hands, and he seemed in deep thought.

" Papa," she said, going softly toward
him^ with a mouth that smiled in the mid-
dle but wept at the cornersA as Lamartir.e
so pathetically says, "papa, dear, may I
speak to you a moment?"

" Yes, my darling, what is it ? Why are
you so pale ? "

She knelt beside him, and, putting her
arms around his neck, leane'd her head
on his breast, and looked into his face with
a tender scrutiny.

"You are sad, papa, sad because you
think I shall leave you to-morrow."

" Yes," he replied, in a trembling voice,
pressing his lips to her white forehead,
" yes, I have been thinking of it, and I
must confess I shall be miserably lonely
without you."

She made an effort to throw all the
lightness and cheerfulness possible into
her voice as she said: "But, darling, I shall
not leave you to-morrow ; something has
occurred that makes it impossible. Rich-
ard must leave Helmsford to-night. It is a
matter of importance that forces him; in
fact, it is a secret that he cannot explain,
nor I either, dear papa ; but I am con-
vinced it is absolutely necessary lie should
go, and I am contented to remain a little
longer with you. It is better, is it not?
and you are very glad to keep your poor
child?"

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

She had spoken rapidly, as though to
prevent all questions or explanations, and
by her very lightness to disarm him of all
suspicion.

" I don't quite understand you," he said,
with an uneasy look, passing his hand over
his forehead ; " you don't mean that you
shall not be married to-morrow, and that
Richard is going away to-night without a
word of explanation to me ? "

" Yes, papa ; he must leave in an hour to
catch the train for London ; and you know
he had so much to say to me that he had no
time to speak with you. So I told him I
would explain it all, and then he felt so
badly to leave me in this sudden manner ;
and now, dear papa, don't ask me any ques-
tions. You can trust me, can't you? And,
indeed, I am so happy and contented to re-
main with you."

" Are you sure you are happy, my child ? "
he said, looking long and earnestly into her
face. " Are you sure you are happy V "

" How can I help being happy with you,
papa ? I have always been happy with
you," she replied.

" And what will Madame Landel and the
servants think ? " he questioned, with anxi-
ety.

" O, as to dear Madam, I will tell her all
that is necessary, and the servants are very
good. Whatever explanation I choose to
make will satisfy them ; beside, we must
not mind what they think. And now, papa,
you will have me to make your tea, warm
your slippers, cut your review, and be your
naughty little girl the same as ever. Won't
it be better '? "

" My child ! my child ! " he said, pressing
her to his heart with a sudden burst of ten-
derness; " I don't know what this means.
I don't understand why this secret is kept
from me ; I only know it is your wish,
and so I shall not insist ; but I hope, I trust,
you are not acting a part, that you are
not wrecking your future happiness by false
pride or mistaken duty."

" No, no, papa ! believe me, it is better as
it i?."

He looked into her face again and read
something there that told him it was indeed
better as it was. And so he said no more.

Then she kissed him very calmly and
tenderly, and went away, leaving him in the
twilight musing over the strangeness of this
event.

" Ah," she said, going slowly up the
stairs to the room of Madame Landel, "ah, I
how heavily this burden presses upon me ! I ;
wonder if I can bear up under it until the
evening is finished and I am alone in my
room. I shall tell Madame Landel she must
give whate.ver explanation she pleases to j
the servant?, and thea it is^finished. The !
few friends who knew of my intended mar- j

riage will wonder at first, but in a little
while they will cease to think of it, and all
will be as before, only here " and she
pressed her hand upon her heart with a
dreary sigh.

Her conversation with Madame Landel
was much the same as with her father.

" And now," she said, when she had
finished, " put everything out of sight, and
let us forget this episode in our quiet life.
In a few days everything will be as it was
before."

But her heart gave her lips the lie. She
knew things could never be to her again as
they had been before. And Madame Lan-
del, although she did not question or preach,
knew by the suffering face, which laid aside
its mask before her, that a terrible blow had
fallen on the heart of the poor girl.

" We will try," said Constance to her
friend, before going down to dinner, " we
will try to be cheerful in dear papa's pres-
ence."

The evening passed away much as the
evenings had before Mr. Vandeleur made
one of their party. Mr. Wilbreham said
little, he seemed almost stupefied by the
suddenness of the change in their arrange-
ments, and he felt he must submit in un-
questioning silence to let things flow back
into their old channels. As he laid his head
on his pillow that night, he felt more than
ever how one by one the threads of his life
were relaxing, how weary he was of it all,
how he longed for rest. He sighed, and
said more than once, " If I could have seen
her happily married before I left her ! But it
cannot be, it cannot be."

And Constance alone in her room, with
her door closed and locked against intru-
sion, wrapped in a white dressing-gown, and
her long hair loosened from its fastenings,
sat before the dying embers, her cold hands
pressed to her throbbing temples, her sad,
tearless eyes looking inward at the ruin a
few hours had made in her hopes, in her
prospects.

" Oh ! " she thought, " if this one day has
seemed so long, how shall I pass all the
future days of my life ? In the morning I
shall say, Would to God it were night ! and
at night, Would to God it were morning !
How shall I act wear a mask of smiles,
and struggle to put down every tender feel-
ing that will arise in my heart, drive from
me resolutely every sweet memory of the
past ? Yes, yes, there must be no past for
me ; I must forget it, and live only for the
future. But O the loneliness, the dreariness,
of the present, the longing for what can
never come again, the haunting memory of
a lost happiness, will they all combine to
render my days a burden ? Methinks it
would be the luxury of grief to lie in dnrk-
ness and weep silently, to cherish thoughts

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

born of disappointment and sorrow ; to find
my only consolation in the free indulgence
of suffering ; but no, no, I cannot. For
papa's sake I must act a part, I must strive
for forf etfulness, I must think only of what
will be 5 . I have read in some Eastern story
that two angels ever attend us, one with
wings of light and the other with wings of
darkness, and when we look up and smile
in the face of the angel of light, the spirit
of darkness quickly throws the shadow of
his black wing over us, fearful lest we
should forget in the light of our glorious
companion that for every joy there is an
equal balance of sorrow. For a little while
the white-winged angel of peace has walked
by my side. I have looked in his face and
smiled, thinking he would ever bear me
company ; but now the shadow of the dark
wing is thrown over me, and I fear it will
never pass away."

Long, long she sat there, until the gray
dawn stole into her room, the dawn of the
day that was to have witnessed her bridal.
With one glance at her pale, worn face she
crept shiveringly into bed, feeling as if she
could never rise again.

At that same hour a haggard, ghastly
face, with red, swollen eyes, looked from a
flying railway carriage out into the cold,
cheerless morning.

After a few days, life at the rectory re-
turned to the old routine. The servants
wondered and talked but little. Respect
and love for their mistress kept them silent.
Helmsford was again closed for an indefinite

Eeriod, much to the disgust of the butler and
ousekeeper. Constance went through her
duties with her usual regularity, but the
loving eyes of her father, who watched her
with an anxious scrutiny, detected a rest-
lessness and uncertainty in her deportment
which was entirely different from her placid
nature. She often started up suddenly in
the midst of a quiet conversation, or laid
down her book at the most interesting chap-
ter, and hurried from the room as though
inaction were unendurable ; or she would for-
get to answer when she was addressed, and sit
looking into vacancy, from which preoccu-
pation she would start as one awakening from
a painful dream. She worked with indefati-
gable industry, she visited the poor oftener
than ever, she took long walks and rides,
she read the most abstruse literature, she
practised perseveringly, and sang in a richer,
clearer voice than ever, always avoiding Mr.
Vandeleur's favorite music. She forced her-
self to fatiguing exertion, so that at night
she would fall into a heavy slumber, from
which she would awake with a sense of
some heavy calamity hanging over her. A
red spot often burned on her cheek, her
eyes were brighter and larger, she grew
thinner and paler, but none the less active ;

an inward fever and excitement seemed con-
suming her.

Madame Landel often remonstrated with
her, but she only replied with a dreary
smile, " My . only forgetfulness is in occu-
pation. 1 am young and strong, my system
can endure it, and by and by the cure will
come."

And so the winter passed away, and with
the spring Constance knew she had but
a little longer to act a part in order to de-
ceive her father; for each day he grew
weaker and less inclined for exertion, leav-
ing most of his duties to his curate, always
saying, " It will not be long ; I shall be bet-
ter soon."

She watched him with a sinking heart, as
he tottered, leaning heavily on his stick,
across the garden to the vestry, which now
he often neglected to do for several days
together ; when lie preached, all the congre-
gation noticed how confused his ideas were,
and how his voice failed and giew weaker
each succeeding Sabbath. Latterly he had
become very dear to his people, and they
often said, sadly, " This is his last Sunday.
Poor old gentleman, he is breaking up fast."

One Sabbath in early spring he indeed
preached his last sermon; but he did not
think it himself, saying, when he Avas too ill
to leave the house, " It is a slight indisposi-
tion, which will pass away. When the warm
weather comes, I shall be better."

When the warm weather came he was
indeed better, but in that land where they
no more say " I am sick."

CHAPTER IX.

" And Time swings wide his outward gate
To weary age."

ONE evening early in April Constance
sat at her father's feet, reading aloud to
him from the life of Thomas-a-Kempis.

He was very pale and thin, and as he lay
back on his pillow, with his Avhite hair fall-
ing on his shoulders, his eyes closed, a placid
smile on his lips, and his long, weary-looking
hands quietly folded, he appeared not unlike
a pictured saint of Perugino.

When Constance had finished the chap-
ter she glanced up in his face ; he seemed
to be sleeping, and so she read no more, but
let the book fall from her hands, and, leaning
her head against the arm of the chair, she
looked anxiously into her father's face,
anxiously, as she was wont to do of late,
and retraced again and again the ravages
that time, sorrow, and sickness had im-
printed there.

" How strong our hold must be on life,"
she thought, " when we can suffer so much
and yet live so loag ! I have not lived one

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

third of papa's years, and yet I feel so old.

darling, if you could only fold mo in
your arms and take me away with you ! I
am so tired, and 1 so need the long, sweet
rest of eternity. You will go away to infi-
nite happiness and leave me here. And what
for ? Only to long and pine to be with you.

1 cannot unite again the threads of life
where they were broken ; no, the web is
sadly entangled ; I cannot repair this con-
fusion. Soon I shall be alone, and then
there will be no necessiby to keep up this
appearance of interest. What shall I do ?
sink into a melancholy nonentity ; live
day after day, like Mariana in the moated
grange, sighing,

1 .... I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead '. '

If God wills I should live, he wills it for
some purpose, and yet my future looks to
me like a sluggish, turbid pool, sleeping for-
ever beneath dark shadows, with never a
ray of sunlight or breath of wind to ripple
its surface."

Her father stirred, and awoke from his
light doze. " What are you thinking of,
my child ? " he inquired, tenderly, as he
laid his trembling hand on her head. " O,
how this stupor oppresses me when I can-
not keep awake during the reading of my
favorite books ! Well, it seems to warn me
of the last sleep that will soon fall upon
me."

" Don't speak so, dear ; you know this is
the usual time for your daily nap, and you
have slept so little of nights lately, certainly
you must have some repose in the day.
Don't you think," she said, looking at him
earnestly, and speaking with a little trem-
ble in her voice, " don't you think you are
somewhat stronger and have more appetite
since the warm days came ? the winter has
been so severe."

" No, no, my darling, I am no stronger.
You must not deceive yourself; I have but
a little time to remain with you, and I have
much to say, my child. This seems a fitting
time. I thought to have left you happy under
the protection of the man you loved; but
God seems to have willed it otherwise,
and I must not complain. I should like
to know, before my death, something of
the mysterious circumstance that has sep-
arated you from one I thought in every
way worthy of you, and whom I had every
reason to believe you loved."

" I did love him, papa," she said, in a
low voice ; " I did love him, but he owed a
solemn duty to another. Was I wrong to
insist upon his performing it, even at the
sacrifice of my own happiness ? "

" No, my noble-hearted child ; you did

right, and your reward will be peace and

happiness at last. I will speak no more of

it. I understand and approve of the prin-
ciple that teaches you to spare me the
knowledge of any wrong act on the part of
the man you have loved. There arc other
things I wish to speak of connected with
your future. You know after I am gone,
dear as this home is to you. it will bu yours
no longer ; my successor must have the rec-
tory ; but wherever you may choose to fix
your residence, it is my wish that Madame
Landel should remain with you. Your
mother's fortune, with what little I shall
leave, renders you independent. As I have
no near relatives to whom I can intrust so
precious a charge, I have written to Lady
Dinsmore to recommend you to her kind-
ness and protection. Many years ago your
dear mother and myself rendered her an
essential service, for which she is not un-
grateful. She is a most noble and tender-
hearted woman, and she has suffered deeply ;
so she will sympathize with you. If she
invites you to make your home at Dinsmore
Castle, accept, if you wish, and do not feel
under any obligation, as it will be a pleasure
to her to repay in this way what she consid-
ers a debt of gratitude. She has only one
daughter, a few years younger than your-
self, who is an invalid, but amiable and in-
telligent. I hope you will become friends;
ani in your future intercourse with Lady
Dinsmore I am sure you will learn to love
her as much as I esteem and respect her."

" Certainly I shall, papa; I have always
wished to know her, and I can form some
id^a of her character by her letttrs, which
you have often read to me ; she must be a
very sweet, gentle person ; but who can take
your place in my heart V " she cried, with a
sudden burst of emotion. " Who can fill
the void in my life after you are gone ? "

" It is true, my child, no one can be to
you the same as your father. No earthly
friend can love you as he does ; but I leave
you in the care of One whose love exceeds
my own. May you be worthy of the hujh
inheritance he has prepared for you ! Fol-
low, as you ever have, the dictates of your
conscience, and you will learn that happi-
ness does not always come with the roali/.a-
tion of our earthly desires, but rather that
the truest peace is born of the sacrifice of
self."

" Yes, papa," she said, with tears in her
voice ; " I am beginning to understand it.
We are all dull scholars, and it is a les-
son difficult to learn ; I often wonder why it
is so easy for us to follow the selfi-li im-
pulses of nature, and so hard to deny our-
selves the happiness that our nobler feel-
ings tell us was not created for our good.
But do not let us talk fo sadly. See what
a glorious sunset 1 How long the days
are now, and how fast the sun goes north I
It already shines on the tower of Helms-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

ford at sotting. Do you remember, when I
was very little, you used to tell me that by
the touch of gold on the tallest tower I could
always know spring had returned? " She
paused, and looked long and earnestly on
the massive turrets flooded with yellow
light. " Papa/' she said at length, " who
is the next heir to Hebnsford after Mr. Van-
deleur ? "

" I think Lady Dinsmore must be," he
replied, " for her mother was a Vandeleur,
and in default of male heirs it goes to the
nearest heiress."

" Strange, and Lady Dinsmore has no sons ;
you say she is kind and charitable, papa ; if
she ever came in possession, how much good
she might do ; the parish needs so much a lady
at Helmsford." She sighed, and fell again
into deep thought ; " And it might have been
my home. I might have passed my life there,
beloved and honored. This happiness was
within my reach, but with my own hand J
put it away from me ; but I did right, and
at last peace will come, if not joy."

" Now, papa," she said, trying to throw a
little cheerfulness into her voice, " you are
looking tired ; lean against me for a few mo-
ments, and we will watch the sun until it is en-
tirely gone ; then I shall ring for Thomas to
help you to bed. I fear you have sat up tco
long, and talkec. ircre than an invalid ought."

He leaned his weary head against her
shoulder, and watched the sun sink calmly
to rest, as calmly as he was drifting
from time into eternity. The golden por-
tals had closed upon the god of day, the
shadows and darkness gathered around him,
but soon, soon he should see the refulgent
light of a new morn, and rest forever in its
glory.

Such thoughts as these passed through
his mind as he turned, with a peaceful
smile, .and kissed his daughter, saying, with
more than his wonted tenderness, " Good
night, and God bless you, my child."

It was the last time he ever sat at the
west window, the last time he ever saw the
sun sink behind the towers of Helmsford.

A few weeks later Constance wrote the
following letter to Lady Dinsmore :

" MY BEAR FRIEND, I trust you will
kindly pardon me for my seeming inattention
to your tender and comforting letter, but since
my dear father's death I have been so bewil-
dered and stupefied by grief as to be almost
incapable of the least mental exertion. Dear-
ly as I loved him, necessary as I knew him
to be to my happiness, I never imagined the
utter emptiness of my life without him.
One by one those so dear to me have been
taken away, and now, indeed, I feel the
entire desolation of a life from which all
natural support and protection have fallen,
and 1 stand appalled and trembling on the

threshold of a future that stretches drearily
before me. I am young in years, but al-
ready I seem to have drained to the very
dregs the cup of sorrow ; and though I have
scarcely known happiness, and life has not
fulfilled its promise, yet so weary am I that
I shrink from any further acquaintance
with the future, and cannot forbear com-
plaining that I have not been taken with
the others. Do not deem these the first weak
complainings of an undisciplined spirit, of an
untutored will. No, since my early child-
hood I have been taught in the school of
sorrow, and like my dear father I have tried
to learn resignation to the Divine will. Nev-
ertheless, I feel that I have accomplished
but half of my work ; I must live and
strive for something beyond the selfish in-
dulgence of my grief. Like one standing
on the confines of two worlds, I mus t live
fcr one, I must cor.quer the other. I must
karn to bear the will of God patiently, and
without leaving earth must understand that
heaven is my promised inheritance, and that
present happiness is not the only supreme
good to which we may aspire. Often, alter
hcurs of the deepest discouragement anil de-
jection, there succeed a few moments of
calm, or rather of spiritual exaltation, when
my heart is filled with a joy impossible to
describe. Sometimes, as if separated from
myself, my soul springs with a bcund into
the regions of eternal beauty, of which all
that exists is but a faint anel imperfect copy.
Again, illumined by a prophetic light, time
disappears, the veil falls, and I sec far into
the future ; a soul pure, free, and happy,
healed from all earth's ills, seems to float in
the presence of God as a birel in the air.
Then I ask myself why I should sink into
dark despair when such happiness is attain-
able, whzn I am immortal, and life all too
short to prepare for my eternal future.

" Mercifully Time heals the bleeding
wounds of our hearts ; and although the
scars remain, they remind us that we have
suffered, and they may serve to teach us hu-
mility.

" I have lived until now in the narrow
circle of my own home, sheltered and pro-
tected by the gentle love of my father. I
know nothing of the world save what books
have taught me ; now I desire to enter the
arena and see for myself the conflict men
call life. My future plans are fixed. I
have decided to travel for some time, to
seek in change of scene and climate health
for my sick and suffering heart. 1 have no
ties to bind me to England, only the graves
of those I love. Distance will soften my
sorrow and clothe the sod that covers them
with a more tender green, as Time flinjj.s his
mantle of ivy over the rough and crumbling
ruin, hiding the harsh outlines beneath its
graceful beauty.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

" I cannot express Low deeply the tender
sympathy of your letter has touched my
heart, nor can I sufficiently thank you for
your kind offer of a home at Dinsmore Cas-
tle. Believe me, my dear friend, it would
not be best at present. Nothing but an
entire change of country and climate can
arouse me from the lethargy into which I
have sunk since my dear papa's death. My
friend and companion, Madame Landel, will
always remain with me ; it was my father's
wish, and it is also mine. She has trav-
elled much in foreign countries, and her ex-
perience will be invaluable. We propose
to pass the summer in France, and the fol-
lowing winter in Italy. Where I shall then
wander, circumstances will determine.
Would not a winter in the south of Italy be
beneficial to the health of your daughter ?
Why not arrange to come abroad also ?
Before I leave England, which will be in a
few weeks, I shall write to you further de-
tails respecting my intended journey, and in
the mean time I hope you will have decided
to act upon my suggestion, as the society of
one for whom my dear papa had so deep an
esteem and affection would add greatly to
my happiness during my absence. Never-
theless, if I cannot enjoy that pleasure, may
I be allowed to hope for a regular corre-
spondence, as your counsel and advice will
always be a favor beyond expression ?

" With many kind regards toyourdaugh-
" ter, whom I hope soon to know personally,
and heartfelt thanks for your affectionate in-
terest in me, believe me gratefully yours,

" CON'STAXCE WlLBREIIAJI.
" To LADY DIXSMORE, Dinsraore Castle."

Early in June Constance had concluded
her arrangements, and was about to leave
forever the home where she had suffered
and wept and smiled under the wing of the
white angel called Peace. But it was all
finished now. Every record of the past
was to be re-read under foreign skies and
among strange scenes. She would no more
walk the shady garden paths, where her
heart had thrilled and trembled with joy at
the first sweet words of passionate love.
Forevermore to her those scenes must be
only as a warm bright picture or a tender
dream, whose beauty and grace would haunt
her memory with magic power. The rooms
where she had sat at her father's feet while
she studied, read, or talked as he smoothed
with gentle hand her hair, or whispered
some tender word of affection ; the west
window, where she had watched with him
fur the la<t time the sunset, while his dear
head rested on her shoulder ; the nursery,
where she had passed her baby years, the
pet and plaything of her brother and
sister ; the old church, where, nearly every
Sabbath of her life, she had heard his serious,

impressive voice from the pulpit ; and, more
than all, the dear graves, over which she had
wept with the uncontrollable passionate sobs
of a child, and later with the deep, subdued
grief of a woman, all these she mur-t
leave, and perhaps forever. For who of us
can tell, if we go forth in the morning,
whether we shall return at night ?

With a terrible sinking of the heart she
watched each familiar scene fade from her
sight as she leaned from the carriage win-
dow, aad she turned to Madame Landel,
saying, with a sob, " Farewell, dear, dear
home ! Where shall I find a love so tender
and true, so patient and wise, as I have
known here? Ah, my heart is breaking
because I know it can never be mine again."

"Patience, dear, patience; God only knows
the future," said Madame Landel, tenderly
clasping the hand of the weeping girl.
" When you return, you may be happier
than your imagination ever pictured even
in your most peaceful moments."

CHAPTER X.

CHATEAU LE COMPTE.

N Paris, near the Champs Elysees, at the
corner of the Rue de stands an an-
tique, irregular pile of buildings, which was
once, before Paris had extended itself to
Passy, the maison de campayne of the Dukes
du Compte. At one time it had been sur-
rounded by gardens and parks, which had
gradually disappeared to swell the number
of boulevards and streets in that vicinity.
However, there yet remained enough to
make a most charming modern garden, and
the passer-by never dreamed that behind
the rude, time-stained pile, with its little
windows and forbidding gate, was a spot
of rural loveliness seldom found in a city
like Paris. Above the ponderous door,
thickly studded with iron spikes and bars,
was a stone entablature still bearing the
family coat of arms, with the name " Chateau
le Compte," and underneath hung a neat
black sign, on which was painted in white
letters, Pension Antjlaite.

One afternoon in June, when the sun threw
the long shadow of the Arc de Triomphe
down the Champs Elysees, and the gay,
brilliant throng passed out of that sh:idow
into the beauty and brightness of the Hois
de Boulogne, a travelling carriage drew up
before the gate of the Chateau le Compte,
and Constance Wilbreham looked with
something like misgiving at the gloomy
entrance. While the, servant pulled at the
iron chain which served for a bell-rope, she
-aid to Madame Landel, " What a dismal-
looking place ! It seems to me like a

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

prison. What ever could induce any one
to advise us to come here ? I am sure I
shall not like it."

" Wait, my dear, until the gate is open.
You have no idea how much beauty is
hidden behind these uninviting exteriors,
especially in France, and then you know
we have already written to engage our
rooms."

While Madame was speaking a good-
natured face appeared at the grating. The
coup d'ceii seemed satisfactory, for in a
moment, as if by magic, the great portal
swung open and displayed a scene of beauty
which caused an involuntary exclamation of
delight from Constance. A smoothly paved
court, with statues, flowers, and fountains,
hospitable-looking doors right and left, and
beyond a sunny vista of garden.

In a moment several white-aproned ser-
vants bustled out to attend to the luggage,
and Constance was met at the door by a
tall, elegant-looking woman, who smiled
kindly, and said, in an exceedingly refined
and sweet voice, "Miss Wilbreham and
Madame Landel, I presume? Allow me 10
show you to your rooms myself; they are
all prepared, and I hope you will find
them comfortable and pleasant."

Constance returned, with many thanks,
the kind greeting of the lady, whom she at
once understood to be Madame de Marc, the
proprietress of the pension. The daughter
of a poor English clergyman, she had
married a French officer, who left her at
his death no other resource than to become
a governess, or open a pension ; she pre-
ferred the latter, and finding the Chateau
le Compte to let, furnished, she hired it, and
established herself most satisfactorily, mat-
ing her house a home to her patrons, as well
as a comfortable and orderly pension.

Constance' followed her up a flight of
polished oak stairs, to a pretty suite of
rooms overlooking the garden, which in-
deed promised to be both pleasant and com-
fortable.

" We dine at seven, table d'hole, and it is
now six," said Madame de Marc, looking at
her watch. " Perhaps you would prefer din-
ing in your room to-day, as you must be
very tired after your journey ; if so, you can
be served here. But use no ceremony, we
are quite enfamille, thirty persons ; rath-
er a large number, to be sure, but all
agreeable acquaintances."

Constance thanked her, saying they would
prefer dining alone for that day, but after
dinner they would take a turn in the gar-
den, when they hoped to meet some of her
family.

Madame Landel was already busy open-
ing the boxes and arranging the ward-
robes.

Constance leaned from the window and

inhaled a delicious breath of flower-perfumed
air, which, after the hot, dusty carriage, was
most refreshing. She heard the "merry
voices of men and wo:r.en talking in the
garden below, and caught glimpses of white
dresses flitting to and fro among the trees.
There was something homelike and cheerful
in the surroundings, that soothed her weary
heart and brain.

" Is it not a delightful spot ? " she said to
Madame Landel as they seated themselves to
a delicate, well-cooked French dinner. " I
already feel as though I should be contented
to pass some months here ; and this garden,
is it not charming? I am so glad to be
among trees and flowers ; they remind me of
dear Helmsfbrd."

The tears started again to her eyes, for
she had wept almost constantly during their
journey, and her friend felt the necessity of
directing her thoughts, if possible, to some
new channel. . Here she would at least have
young and cheerful society, and the amuse-
ments and sight-seeing of the gayest city in
the world would so divert and occupy her
as to leave her little time to brood over her
sorrow ; so it was with something like satis-
faction in her voice that Madame Landel re-
plied, " Yes, my dear, it is all very pretty and
pleasant. You know I have always told you
Paris was the most charming city in the
world^and I am sure you will entirely agree
with me after you have passed a few months
here."

An hour after, when the long June day
was drawing to a close, and the sun threw
golden arrows at random among the trees,
quivering, dusky, golden arrows, that trem-
bled, fainted, and fell in soft shadows above
the nests of tender birds singing their ves-
pers of love ere they folded their tiny wings
for ,-leep, Constance satin alittle arbor under
some flowering acacias and clustering roses,
talking calmly but sadly with Madame de
Marc of her recent bereavement, for the
kind-hearted woman felt irresistibly drawn
toward the sorrowful and lovely young
stranger. Suddenly they Avere interrupted
by the sound of a clear musical voice call-
ing, " Madame, Madame, where have you
hidden yourself? I want you directly ! "

" I am here, dear," replied Madame, smil-
ing ; and then, turning to Constance, she
said, " Here she comes, our beauty, we call
her."

Constance raised her eyes and saw stand-
ing before her a form that realized Tenny-
son's dream of fair women,

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair."

" Miss Wilbreham, allow me to present to
you Mrs. Tremaine, a compatriot of yours,"
said Madame de Marc.

Constance, who was rather cold in her
manner, gave her hand with unusual warmth

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

to the lovely creature, who took it, with
many protestations of delight at making
the acquaintance of one who promised to be
such an agreeable addition to their party.
" And now, dear Madame, since I have inter-
rupted your tele-a-tele" she said, gayly, " I
must tell you why I have done so. Mr.
Carnegie has just received tickets for the
opera, and as it is the last night of Alboni i
I am crazy to go, but I shall not go without j
you; indeed, I shall take no refusal, you I
must accompany me," she insisted, with a j
pretty air of authority. " Miss Wilbreham [
will excuse you for this evening " ; and, put-
ting her arm around Madame de Marc, she
attempted to draw her away.

" Certainly," said Constance, " I was just
decided to go in, as the dew is falling ; and,
indeed, I am so weary that I shall retire al-
most immediately."

The three lad'ies walked down the long
shadowy gardan path together, and they
made a fair picture as they went, for nothing
human could be fairer than Helen Tremaine.
Tall, but beautifully proportioned, a slender
waist, full bust, shoulders and arms like a
Greek statue, a small head heavy with
masses of golden blonde hair, skin white I
and pink as the sea-shell, eyes grayish- 1
green with long dark lashes, nose slightly j
retrou^e, and pouting, smiling mouth, all j
these charms, joined to manners careless
and gay as a child's, made her the idol of
* those who loved her, and the innocent vic-
tim of the envious and malignant. She had
been two years in the pension of Madame
de Marc, but who she was and .whence
she came few knew. That she was married
was no secret, but all concerning her hus-
band was a profound mystery. She never
mentioned him, neither did Madame de Marc,
who seemed to be acquainted with the his-
tory of her life; yet she always spoke of her
future quite as one would of a single woman's,
although every one knew she was not a
widow. The Mrs. Grundy of the establish-
ment often shook her head dolorously over
her unavailing efforts to solve the mystery
of Helen Tremaine's life ; but after two years
of wondering and speculating she was no
nearer unravelling the knotted skein than at
the beginning.

The next day at dinner Mr. Carnegie was
presented to Constance ; he was a tall, pale,
intellectual-looking man about thirty, black
hair and stiff side beard ; long, straight
nose ; long upper lip ; a somewhat large
mouth ; deep-set, thoughtful gray eyes ; and
square, massive brow; altogether a strong,
expressive face, which, in spite of a certain
shyness and nervousness of manner, made
him interesting. He was Scotch, of good
family, and rich ; an author, for he had
written several romances ; an amateur musi-
cian ; a lover of old picture?, old china, old

cabinets, and other articles of virlu. He
had studied much, read much, travelled
much ; was au fait on all subjects, could
converse with intelligence on mu;-ic, art,
and literature, as well as the last race at
Longchamp, the finest and fastest horses
in Paris and London, the beauty of the last
ballet-dancer or opera-singer, the last style
of hats and dresses, the last religious excite-
ment or political change. In fact, he was
a man of the world. Yet beneath all was a
good heart, a rather eccentric but noble na-
ture, a clear judgment, and a firm will. But
in spite of the strength and resolution of his
character he loved with " the love of love "
Helen Tremaine, and she played with Elm
in the same way a child would sport with an
ugly but faithful dog. She declared to her-
self a dozen times a day that she hated him,
and yet, for the three months they had been
almost constantly together, scarcely an hour
had passed that she had not demanded
some little service or favor, which he was
only too happy to grant, in spite of her
caprices.

After some conversation, Constance learned
that he was intimately acquainted with Lady
Dinsmore.

" Yes," he said, " I have often heard
her speak of your father as one of her
best and dearest friends, and also of Van-
deleur of Helmsford, who, I believe, is
in some way related to her. By the way,
did I not hear he was going to marry a
young lady at Helmsford and settle down
at last ; and, later, some sort of a story of
the engagement being broken off, and he
starting suddenly for the Danube 1 "

" It was quite true," said Mrs. Rawdon,
an English lady, who sat near them. " I
remember, some nine months ago, he came
back to London, every one saiil quite a
changed man. He shunned society, and
was never seen in any of his old haunts. I
recollect meeting him one day in Hyde
Park ; he looked pale and thin, and alto-
gether very miserable. You must have
known something of the affair, Miss Wil-
breham, as it happened at Helmsford. Can-
not you give us the particulars ? "

"I do remember hearing something of
the story, but I am unable to give you any
further information," replied Constance,
calmly, but with sudden pallor.

" How romantic ! " said Mrs. Tremaine.
And then Madame Landel made some re-
mark that turned the convcisation to an-
other subject.

Very soon Constance, Mrs. Tremaine, and
Mr. Carnegie, became almost constant com-
panions. They spent their days in riding,
walking, or sight-seeing, and the warm
moonlit June evenings in sauntering back
and forth on the lawn, or sitting under the
wilderness of roses, listening to Mrs. Tre-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

maine's lively conversation or Mr. Carne-
gie's more abstruse discussions, which he
sometimes varied by an air on the mando-
lin or guitar, while Helen sang a light Span-
ish serenade, or passionate Italian romance.

So the days passed away, and Constance
was often surprised at the interest and
pleasure she was beginning to find in life.
Not that she had ceased to mourn, ah, no !
for often in the stillness of night she
would stifle the passionate sobs that rose to
her lips as she stood watching from her
window the round white moon rising above
the lindens and acacias, flooding fountain
and statue with its soft white light, and
turning the dew-wet lawn into a sheet of
silver studded with diamonds.

" Oh ! " she thought, " the throbbing stars,
the serene moon, and the silent heavens hang
over the new-made grave at dear Helms-
ford, and throw long shadows of the church-
spire across the lawn where I have so often
walked with one who is now a lonely, sor-
rowful wanderer over the deserts of the
far East 1 "

CHAPTER XL

AM I TO BLAME?

ONE evening Constance and Mrs. Tre-
maine had wandered away from the
others, down a long, shady walk to a little
arbor concealed among the trees, and over-
hung with ivy and fragrant Paestum roses ;
there they seated themselves to watch a
flock of white doves that were cooing and
fluttering about among the flowers, mur-
muring their good-nights to Nature before
taking flight to their cot, which stood near,
half hidden by the embowering trees.

The two girls formed a striking picture
as they sat there, relieved by the rich back-
ground of foliage and flowers, Constance
with her pale, sweet face, dusky hair, and
mourning robes heavy with crape; Mrs.
Tremaine, her waves of gold tied back with
a blue ribbon, a thin, airy white dress with
innumerable little ruffles of lace, confined at
the waist with a blue sash, a bunch of scar-
let geraniums in her bosom, and a scarlet
silk cloak thrown carelessly around her
shoulders. She was a little paler than
usualand very grave. Constance observed,
for several days, that she had avoided Mr.
Carnegie, and that he, too, seemed to be
laboring under some sudden depression.

" How serious you are ! " said Constance,
after a few moments of thoughtful silence.
" I did net know you were ever sad."

" Ah, that is just what every one thinks,"
she replied, with a little pettishness in her
Toice. "I wonder why I cannot be sad,

few people have had more to make them
so."

" I did not think you had ever known
sorrow, you are always so cheerful and
happy," said Constance, gently ; " will you
not tell me what your trouble is ? Perhaps my
sympathy may be a little consolation to you.
I have been well taught in the hard school
of disappointment, and I can understand the
suffering human heart better than many."

" You are very good, dear," Helen re-
plied ; " but, after all, it is not so very
serious a matter. Only that stupid Mr.
Carnegie must fancy himself in love with
me ; and because I cannot return his love
he imagines he is very miserable, and so
mopes and looks melancholy, and that I
cannot endure."

" How wrong ! " exclaimed Constance, in
a tone of reproof. " How can you trifle
with the deep, true love in a human heart?
You are wrong, believe me, you are wrong."

" Am I to blame ? " she inquired, scorn-
fully, " am I to blame because he has
been such a goose as to fall in love with
me ? I never encouraged him, never I
O, men are such difficult things to manage !
Just as you get well acquainted with them,
and fancy you have taught them the beauty
of a Platonic affection, they suddenly assume
the character of lovers, and so are no longer
useful. J am dreadfully sorry, for Mr. Car-
negie was so useful. Now I can never ask
him to do any more little commissions for
me."

" Are you sure you understand your own
heart ? Are you sure you do not love him ? "
inquired Constance, with some anxiety in
her voice ; " I believe under all this badi-
nage there is some deeper feeling ; and per-
haps you really love him."

" Love him ! No indeed, that I do not !
I love him as a friend, nothing more. I
know dear Madame de Marc desires this
marriage ; but for all I love her, and wish
to please her, and my own worldly wisdom
tells me it is a desirable alliance, yet nothing
will ever induce me to marry again a man I
do not love. I have had one experience,"
she said, with a touch of pathos in her voice ;
" I know the horror of a marriage without
love. No, nothing Avill ever induce me to
take such a step again. I will tell you," she
continued; "I don't mind telling you, you
are so good, and I know you will not repeat
what I say. I keep my secret close enough
from the charitable old spinsters in the
house, for I would rather be torn to pieces
by rat than to fall into the merciless hands
of these amiable creatures of uncertain age.

" My mother was the daughter of a poor
country curate and the widow of a spend-
thrift English officer. I was the eldest of
five daughters, and the beauty of the family ;
and as my father left us no inheritance but

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

his debts, it was expected that I, by my
marriage, should rescue them all from pov-
erty. It was always dinned in my ears,
' Helen, you must marry young, and you
must marry a ricii man,' until I began to
look upon myself as a chattel to be sold for
the benefit of the others, and so accepted
my fate with an uncomplaining sort of in-
difference. When I was nineteen I was
sent to London to be exhibited and sold to
the highest bidder. At the house of a
friend 1 met Mr. Tremaine, a rich banker,
a stern, taciturn man, and old enough to be
my father. I need not say that from the
first he was repulsive to me; yet the mar-
riage was arranged to take place in three
mouths. The more 1 saw of this man, the
more I detested him ; I felt a strange fear
and horror of him*; there was something in
his regard that froze my blood, and if he
laid his hand upon me 1 felt like screaming
or going into convulsions. Yet I knew I
must accept my fate, that complaints were
useless, and God only knows how I tried to
conquer my dislike. It was only a few
days before my marriage, when one after-
noon as I sat alone in the drawing-room,
sadly thinking of my hopeless future, a vis-
itor was announced. Jt was a young gentle-
man whom I had met much in society during
the season, and who had formed a warm
attachment for me. ' Ah,' he said. ' I am glad
to find you alone, for I wish to speak with you
on an important matter. Accept what I
shall say to you as a proof of my deep inter-
est in your future happiness, and I Beseech
you to consider well the importance of my
communication. Do you know there is
insanity in the family of the man you are
about to marry, that two brothers have
lately died in an asylum ? and many say
and persons who know him intimately
that Mr. Tremaine has recently shown un-
mistakable signs of mental aberration.'

" ' O my God ! ' I cried, ' is this true ? Then,
indeed, my worst fears are confirmed; I
have felt it ; I have known it ! ' I thanked
the gentleman for his friendly interference,
and promised to listen to his timely warning.
That night my mother and sisters arrived
to witness mylhcvifice. I was to be married
from the house of my friend in London, and

S) directly to a magnificent mansion in
ryanstone Square ; the settlements were
all arranged with princely liberality, the
presents were not unworthy the nuptials of
a queen. Everything exactly suited the
ambition of my mother, who, when I knelt
before her, and laid my head upon her lap,
pouring out the story of this odious dis-
covery and my horror of the marriage, only
refused to listen, declaring it to be the
malignant slander of an interested party.
I saw it was useless ; I must submit. I was
too weak to stem the tide of opposition, and

the marriage must take place. At times I
resolved to put an end to my miserable
existence ; again, to fly before the fatal day,
and conceal myself in some secluded spot.
But at that time I had not strength of char-
acter to put either resolve into execution.
So I drifted on helplessly to the hour of my
sacrifice. It was finished, and 1 was in-
stalled mistress of my noble maiii-inn.

" Whether my husband, knowing the
wrong he had done me, and wishing to atone
in some measure, acted from gt.'neroi-ity
1 cannot say, but he insisted that my mother
and sisters should make their home with me.
For them all was arranged satisfactorily,
but for me, poor victim, how can 1 describe
my fear, my horror and agcny, when 1 was
left alone with that man, who-e every pecu-
liarity I magnified into madness '? Of course,
my misery exaggerated the evil. Though
my mother, sisters, and friends pretended
to be blind to the fact, he was even at that
time the victim of the first symptoms of in-
sanity. A week passed away, and I could
endure my terrible situation no longer; real
necessity gave me strength.

" One morning, alter having passed a
night of indescribable horror, I determined
to leave him. Madame de Marc was the
daughter of uiy father's dearest friend; with
her I resolved to seek a home and protection.
Before night I was on my way to Paris. I
left a letter tor my husband on his dressing-
table, telling him of my true feelings, en-
treating him not to follow me, and recom-
mending to his kindness my mother and
sisters. I cannot tell you what I suffered,
even after I found myself free from his pres-
ence. I felt there was no further hope nor
aim for me in life, and all that remained
was to lie down, fold my hands, and sink
into the forgetfulness of the grave.

" You wonder my face bears no signs of
my suffering. I was young, and the strueirle
was brief. Like the sapling on the hillside,
1 bent while the storm passed over me, and
when the calm came I raised my head
again and looked to Heaven. Ah, but the
memory still remains ! It is two years since,
and I cannot think of it nowwithout a shudder.
Whether it was that the disease had already
made rapid progress or from disappointment
caused by my sudden flight I cannot say.
In less than three weeks alter my marriane
my husband was carried to the same asylum
where his brothers had died hopelessly in-
sane. My mother and sisters went back to
their poverty and seclusion, and I have re-
mained here ever since. A year aj;o, a
lawyer in London, a friend of our family, at
the instigation of my mother, petit iniud that
my marriage might be annulled by an act
of Parliament, which, in consideration of
my youth, and the sad circumstance, was
granted, and 1 was allowed the income,' my

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

husband settled upon me, which I divide
with my mother and sisters.

" Now you have heard my miserable his-
tory, do you think me to blame that I will
not marry a man I do not love ? To think
of it," she said, with a shudder, "brings
back all the old suffering. I like Mr. Car-
negie, I respect him, but I do not love him.
Am I to blame that I do not love him ? "

" No, certainly," replied Constance, " you
are not to blame. The human heart is
a mystery few can understand ; it is impossi-
ble to control it and teach it submission.
Let me advise you to tell Mr. Carnegie
honestly your true sentiments, and if he is
the noble man I believe him to be, he will
not be the less your friend because he can-
not be your lover. Now let us go in. The
sun has set, and the stars are already shin-
ing like diamonds on the brow of night.
They teach us, even in the hours of darkness
and distrust, that there are gleams of God's
mercy mingled with all."

They arose and, arm linked in arm, saun-
tered slowly towards the house. Entering
the principal garden walk, they saw Mr.
Carnegie pacing back and forth, his hands
clasped behind him, his head bent, and his
whole air sad and preoccupied. In a mo-
ment Helen was at his side, her lovely face
aglow, and her eyes beaming with earnest
sympathy.

" O Mr. Carnegie," she said, " I am very
unhappy to sse you so sad. Let us forget
the miserable conversation of the other day,
and be the same as before. I so much need
your friendship ; but indeed I can love
you only as a friend, a brother. Do not
ask anything more from me, for I cannot
love you, and yet I cannot be happy with-
out your friendship ! "

" You have my deepest, truest friendship,
Helen," he replied, taking both her hands,
and looking with intense love into the clear
eyes raised to him. " Yes, I am too happy
if I can be even so much to you as a friend.
I will forget what has passed, and never re-
fer to it again. Only command me. My
greatest pleasure is to be at your service."

" Wei), then," she said, passing her arm
through his in her free, childish way, " now
you are very good, and your old self. Do
you know Madame de Marc has decided to
accompany us to Fontainebleau for a week ?
and we go to-morrow; but we cannot go
without you. Say you will make one of the
party."

" Certainly, if you wish it ; but of whom
is the party composed ? "

" Only Miss Wilbreha-m and Madame
Landel, Madame de Marc and me. Are
these a sufficient inducement ? " she in-
quired with a shy little laugh.

The next day they all arrived at Fontaine-
bleau in excellent spirits. Even Constance

enjoyed the charming scene, and often a
smile trembled around her mouth, but dis-
appeared quickly, as though it were treason
to the dead to laugh and be happy.

They found excellent rooms at the Aigle
Noir, a pretty little hotel near the palace,
and spent the most of their time in the beau-
tiful gardens that surround this most exquis-
ite of all the royal chateaux of France.

They wandered through the long avenues
of clipped yew and laurel, sitting on flow-
ery banks amidst a wilderness of roses,
watching the ever-changing colors of the
many fountains or the graceful swan float-
ing majestically on the bosom of the placid
lake, and the little painted boats, with
white sails and silken pennons fluttering in
the breeze. Sometimes they would gath.tr
around the immense marble basins filled
with aquatic plants, amongst whose shad-
ows sported myriads of gold and silver fish,
and wonder if it were the same to which
Louis XIV. came, with all his court, to feed
his little finny friends, an amusement the
feeble old king was childishly fond of, while
Madame de Maintenon sat in her sedan-chair
surrounded by her lovely maids of honor, all
forgetting for a moment court intrigue and
scandal to take a part in this innocent pleas-
ure.

Then there were days when all the world

came to listen to the music of the Emperor's

| band,fbrthecourtwasthen at Fontainebleau,

| and the lovely Eugenie often walked among

j her people, leaning on the arm of the Em-

\ peror or a count cavalier, locking like a

queen in a fairy tale, bowing and ,'iniling to

all, and received with enthusiasm wherever

she went, for she was then in the first flush

of her power and beauty, and the bourgeois

worshipped her.

To Constance it was a scene of bewilder-
ing enchantment, and she often felt that if
she should close her eyes it would all vanish,
and she would open them to find hert-elf
sitting quietly with her book under a shady
tree in the garden at Helmsford. There
on the left was the vast irregular pile of
architecture, half Gothic, half Norman,
the historical palace of Fontainebleau ; be-
hind, the grand forest, wowd renowned,
stretching away in long sunny vit-tas and
rock-crowned summits for more than fifty
miles ; before her, the gardens and park, the
sunlit lawns, the trees cut in strange, fan-
tastic shapes, the statues, fountains, and
flowers, the miniature lakes with their
painted miniature boats, the elegant crowd
of courtiers passing to and fro, the lovely
Empress followed by her brilliant suite, the
strains of exquisite music from a hundred
instruments quivering and trembling on
the perfumed air, mingled with the cool,
fresh splash of the fountain?, and the blue
sky and summer sun shining over all.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

On other days they wandered through
the grand and magnificent apartments of
the pdace, each rich with historical and
traditional interest, they studied the rare
pictures that adorned the walls, they lis-
tened to Mr. Carnegie's interesting sketches
of each century. Here was the room in
which the sad and disappointed Napoleon
signed his abdication ; where the unfortu-
nate Josephine bade adieu forever to earth-
ly happiness ; where Louis XIV. and Ma-
dame cle Maintenon played out their drama
of love ; where Marie Antoinette enjoyed
for a little time the fatal power of royalty,
youth, and beauty ; where Christina, Queen
of S \veden, unmercifully put to death her
chamberlain, whom she had loved with the
mad pas.-iira of her strange nature, but who
had deceived and betrayed her, a crime
the proud, cruel woman could only blot out
with blood. Each room, each spot, has its
own tragic history, over which Constance
lingered and dreamed, and wondered what
were the thoughts and feeling? of the actors.

Often they rode and walked under the
grand trees of the forest, penetrating into
the depths of the shadowy recesses, pluck-
ing the shrinking blue mimosa and the deli-
cate ferns and harebells, scaring from their
haunts the wild rabbit and partridge or the
shy, graceful deer. Mrs. Tremaine was
always straying away from the others, and
losing herself, causing Mr. Carnegie no
end of trouble and distress. When, after
much running about and shouting, he would
come upon her quietly seated in some shady
nook, weaving with graceful fingers wreaths
of ivy, ferns, and holly, she would break
into a mocking laugh at his pale face and
anxious manner ; then, seeing him look real-
ly distressed, she would throw the garland
around his neci, and, holding it by the ends,
lead him oiF like a captive Bacchus.

One morning Constance, Mrs. Tremaine,
and Mr. Carnegie were riding slowly under
the interlaced branches of some huge elms
that formed aa almost impenetrable shade,
only broken lure and there by slender rays
of sunlight that shot like arrows through
the thick foliage. Mrs. Tremaine was
mounted on a suparb white horse ; her dark
green hibit displayed the beauty of her
figure, th.3 white plumes of her hat mingled
with ths golden curls that had escaped from
their fastenings, hsr cheeks were slightly
flushed, her eyes soft and dreamy. Con-
stance rode quietly by her side. Her pale
face, dirk hiir, black hat and feathers, and
the severe simplicity of her mourning habi!,
formed a striking but no less beautiful con-
trast. S:;;l len'.y there was a crash among
the un:l:>.nvo:>d, the shrubbery parted, and a
magnificent deer, with his antlers laid back,
his nostrils distended and white with foam,
his eyes starting from their sockets, and

every muscle quivering with fear, sprang
across the road with one bound and disap-
peared on the other tide.

" The hunt ! the royal hunt ! " cried Mr.
Carnegie. As he spoke, a turn in the road
'showed them all the gay cavalcade tearing
madly along with their dogs, in lull pursuit
after the poor trembling animal who was
straining every limb to escape. First came
the Empress, her golden hair and white
feathers flying in the wind, her scarlet and
white costume, jewel-handled whip, and
gayly caparisoned, full-blooded hunter, with
not a spot or fleck of foam on his glossy
hide. Next came the Emperor, a most
commanding figure in the saddle; then the
gay courtiers, with a flutter of feathers, a
Hashing of jewels, loud, gay laughter, mingled
with the snorting of the horses, the clatter-
ing of their hoofs, and the panting of the
dogs as they flew by like the wind. More
than one head was turned for another glance,
and even the Emperor bowed low in his
saddle to the vision of quiet beauty that
met his admiring gaze. In a moment they
were out of sight, and Constance s-Lhed as
she said, " I hope they will not bring
down the poor thing. It is strange how all
these people can find pleasure in hunting a
helpless, timid animal to death."'

" O, how tame you are ! " cried Mrs. Tre-
maine, her cheeks aglow, and her eyes
bright with excitement. " 1 only wish I
might ride with them."

" Your view is right, Miss Wilbreham,"
said Mr. Carnegie; "it is indeed a cruel
pastime, though all the world share it."

" Nevertheless, it was a brilliant scene,"
returned Helen. " Let us make a short cut
across this narrow bridle-path, and perhaps
we may meet them again."

That evening they sat around the little
table in the beautiful garden of the hotel,
eating their ices, discussing the adventure
of the morning, and expressing their re j rets
that they must return to Paris the next day.

" Dear Madame de Marc, stay another
week," cried Helen.

"No, it is impossible, my dear; 1 cannot
neglect my duties any longer," replied
Madame, decidedly. So the next morning
they went back to Paris.

CHAPTER XII.

TOMBS AND PICTURES.

"TTERE is an affeetiiin termination to
Jll true love," said Mrs. Tree aine, turn-
ing to Mr. Carnegie, as they stood one. day
bv the tomb of Abelanl and HeloiM', at
Pore la Chaise, " a sad monir.iu'iil ; two
disappointed hearts united only in death. "

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

" But they were happy for a time," re-
plied Mr. Carnegie ; " they had their fore-
taste of paradise in the retreat they had
chosen, before old Fulbert separated them.
I often think of the lonely Heloise pining
in her com r ent cell, dreaming foiever of her
dark-eyed Abelard, her poet, her singer,
her reality of all that is noble and beauti-
ful in humanity ; and the poor, sad, heart-
broken Abelard, pacing the long, dim cor-
ridors of St. Gildas, gnawing his very heart
in the bitterness of his sorrow, or pouring
out wild lamentations to the unheeding
waves, as he walked for hours on the
rugged shore, mad with thinking of his
lost Heloise and his ruined life, or shedding
scalding tears over the memory of the sweet
but brief days of their happy love, which he
knew were lost to him forever ; again, sit-
ting in his abbe's dress, stern and gray, be-
fore the rude harp in his cell, pouring out
the pent-up passion of his life in a wild
sweet song of longing love and regret."

" And this is all," said Constance, " all
that remains of one of the saddest trage-
dies of the human heart. Two stone figures
placidly sleeping side by side, one in the
dress of a nun, the other in that of a monk,
stony crosses clasped to their stony breasts,
and stony eyes looking calmly and patiently
toward the blue heavens ! ' After life's
fitful fever, they sleep well ! ' "

" Do you know," inquired Mrs. Tremaine,
" that this is the shrine of all unhappy lov-
ers ; they have hung these withered garlands
on the tomb. They wet the unsympathizing
stone with their tears, and pray to the spirits
of the united lovers, now happy in paradise,
believing they will intercede with the mother
of God to pity them in their sorrows. They
bring an offering of fresh flowers, clasp their
hands above the cross, make a solemn vow
of fidelity, which they seal with a kiss, and
then go away, believing all will be well."

Mr. Carnegie turned an eloquent glance
upon her as she spoke, and, leaning his
forehead against the tomb, remained silent
for a moment. Was he praying, or was he
thinking ? ,1 do not know, I cannot declare,
for his placid face revealed nothing as he
turned away from the spot.

They paused for a moment to regard the
place where rest the remains of Marshal
Ney, Napoleon's brave, noble, and beloved
general. It is a simple enclosure around a
mound of grass and a few mournful neglected
flowers. No storied marble tells of the great
and heroic acts of a life devoted to its country.

" N'importe ; the solitary sadness of the
place is more eloquent than the proudest
monument," said Mr. Carnegie, as he
plucked a few leaves for his herbarium.

Near the simple but massive tomb of the
Rothschild family, in the Jews' cemetery, is
the tomb of Rachel, a plain granite pile,

about the size and form of an English dog-
kennel. Mrs. Tremaine lingered near it in
deep thought. " How strange," she said at
length, " that so frail a body should imprison
genius which could magnetize and electrify
the multitude until they forgot that the part
she was playing was not reality ! And
stranger still that a form so classically beau-
tiful, a face so lofty and pure, could conceal
a character so at variance with her intel-
lect and appearance."

" I remember," remarked Mr. Carnegie,
" seeing her in Medea many years ago,
and her agonized expression, her passionate
utterance, are as vividly before me as though
it were but yesterday. It is not difficult to
understand how a soul all restle.-sm ss and
fire should find these frail barriers of cloy
insufficient to retain it. She poured out her
life and vitality to the adoring world with
heedless prodigality. Her years were few,
but she lived months in each day, and ages
in each year. At one time she had the
world at her feet, and now what remains ?
A handful of dust, a neglected tomb, a repu-
tation unmercifully handled by her biog-
raphers. These are all save the fame of
her genius ; that was a spark of immortality
which nothing could extinguish."

" Let us go," said Mrs. Tremaine. " It is
late, and the surroundings are rather gloomy.
I think an English country churchyard
much to be preferred for a burial-place.
Pere la Chaise is vast, grand, and solemn, a
silent city of the dead. It speaks only of
decay, never of resurrection."

One bright day in August they wandered
through the magnificent park of Versailles,
down long avenues of stately elms, festooned
with ivy and climbing roses, over lawns
green and smooth as velvet, by babbling
rustic brooks, sparkling fountains, and shady
arbors, until they reached the charming
Trianon of Marie Antoinette, the Swiss cot-
tages, the little gardens, the tiny ponds,
rustic bridges, and vine-covered bowers, all
as they were arranged nearly a century ago
for the pleasure of that young and lovely
queen, whose will was law, whose smile was
more potent than the frown of a nation.
They walked through the pretty simple
rooms where she had played her role of
peasant, when she served with her own fair
hands the adoring courtiers who gathered
around her, loving her better that she could
descend from her royalty to seek happiness
in a simple pastoral scene.

" Do you think it possible she has slept in
this bed ? " exclaimed Mrs. Tremaine, paus-
ing to examine a simple couch overhung
with muslin drapery ; " and are these pretty
pastoral scenes the same pictures that first,
met her gaze when she awoke in the morn-
ing?"

" Certainly, the very same," replied Con-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

stance, " or at least I love to think so, it
brings one so much nearer the life of the
woman."

" I dislike to leave a place of such calm
and simple beauty for the magnificence of
the palace," said Madame Landel. " Poor
queen ! how her heart must have ached
when she looked upon it all for the last time ! "

" I think the saddest of all the remains
of departed glory, life, and joy is this
theatre," observed Mr. Carnegie as they
followed the guide to the deserted shrine of
Melpomene and Thalia. " Here is the large
and beautifully arranged stage, where the
queen, cavaliers, and ladies oi the court
played their mimic parts, which were but
rehearsals for the last fearful tragedy tnat
ended the lives of the greater part of the
gay throng. Dust and mould have gathered
and obscured the brilliancy of the exquisite-
ly painted scenes. Spiders spin their web.-;
among the drops and gilded curtains year
after year undisturbed. Solemn, unearthly
echoes resound where once mirth, laughter,
and joy held their wild revel."

" 1 can fancy," said Mrs. Tremaine, as
she turned to the richly decorated royal
box, ' " the whole enchanting scene, the
beauty, the youth, the rustling silks, dancing
plumes, and sparkling jewels, the blight
eyes, the snowy bosoms, the glowing cheeks,
that were so soon faded and darkened by
despair and death. I can see Louis XVL,
his placid, benevolent face beaming with
pleasure and expectation, surrounded by his
ministers, all looking eagerly for the curtain
to rise, when their queen would appear as
first lady in some light French comedy.
Those were merry days for the^court of
France, careless days of mirth and pleas-
ure, followed by a reign of despair and
terror."

They left the theatre to its silence, dust,
and darkness, and went through suites of
rooms, and magnificent state apartments,
all furnished royally ; they lingered to look
on the rare pictures, a gallery in them-
selves, the statues, old china, tapestry
glowing with colors as fresh and vivid as
when it left the loom, and the curious clock,
on which, when the hour strikes, a door flies
open and a number of little figures in the cos-
tume of the time dance a minuet. In the pri-
vate rooms of Marie Antoinette they found
much to interest them, her library, her
writing-table, and chair ; they looked with
something like reverence at the books she
had read and studied, still bearing the marks
placed by her fingers.

When they reached the private boudoir
lined with "mirrors, Mrs. Tremaine ex-
claimed, " Ah ! I can well understand why I
Marie Antoinette clasped her throat with |
her hands when she entered this room for
the first time. Look, I have no head."

They all started in astonishment at the
singular appearance Mrs. Tivmaine pre-
sented, sans tele. Owing to some arrange-
ment of the plates of glass, in cm-tain
positions the body seems to stand without
a head.

" Certainly the poor queen's after fate
seems to warrant in a measure the verity
of the tradition," said Mr. Carnegie.
" Though we have no reason at present to
think Mrs. Tremaine will be beheaded, yet,
if the tradition is true, no one ever finds
himself accidentally in that position with-
out coming sooner or la'er t:> the /juillotine."

" How horrible ! " said He!ej, turning
away with a shudder ; " but I suppose the
poor queen believed in it then as little as
1 do now."

From the boudoir they passed into the pri-
vate cabinet, the door of which the brave
Swiss guards defended while the unfortunate
queen made her escape down the secret
stairs. A little room less than ten feet
square^ what a scene of carnage it must
have presented ! Twelve brave soldiers cut
down by the infuriated mob !

" How they must have loved their queen,"
remarked Constance, " when they so willing-
ly gave their lives for her ! "

They looked from the balcony, where she
had courageously held up the Prince Im-
perial to the blood-thirsty mob, entreat-
ing them, with all the strong love and
tenderness of a mother's heart, to spare and
protect her child.

" Poor mother ! " said Madame Landel,
with tears in her eyes, "in her natural
affection she forgot her royalty, and would
have knelt at the feet of the lowest fish-
woman in the crowd to have saved those
she loved."

" Now," said Mr. Carnegie, looking at his
watch, " let us go into the garden to see the
world-renowned fountain, which precisely
at four o'clock sends up its sparkling waters
from five hundred jets."

Scarcely had they reached their seats
under some overhanging branches, when
here and there from the immense semi-
circle started up tiny streams, that in-
creased in size and height until they seemi-d
to reach almost to the heavens, dazzling,
sparkling, many-colored rays, rainbow-
tinted, slanting sunbeams, overshot with
trembling, changing mist. It was more like
some scene conjured up by the ma^ic of an
enchanter than the cunning device of man.
Fur a few moments only this wonderful
effect lasted ; even while their eyes were
fixed on it, it disappeared, and nothing re-
mained but the dull gray stone of the
fountain.

" How beautiful, but how brief! " said
Constance, with a sigh ; " it is an emblem
of joy, entrancing but evanescent, fauod and

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

gone even while we are exulting over its
possession ! "

Poor girl ! while she spoke the memory
of the rose-tinted hours of her life started
up suddenly from the still fountain of the
past, glorified and irradiated her clouded
sky, and then vanished, leaving nothing but
the hard, cold reality, the dull grayness of
the stone she had rolled over the grave of
her love.

They all left this spot, so replete with
beauty and historic interest, sadder, if not
wiser, and little was said by any of the
party during the drive home; each one
seemed absorbed in thought, or perhaps
they were all too tired for conversa-
tion.

They spent many days in the gallery of
the Louvre ; there, with the aid of Mr.
Csrnegie's knowledge and taste, they studied
the exquisite productions of the greatest
masters.

Constance lingered longer, and examined
with a more profound interest those pure
but half-conceived aspirations of Cimabue
and Giotto. She often fancied the shep-
herd-boy neglecting his sheep to gaze with
dreamy eyes over the distant Pisan hills, or
with more intense earnestness into the blue
ether, perhaps tracing in the varying and
tender tints' the pale, sweet -face of a saint
or suffering martyr. Poor pained aspira-
tions, half wrought, but powerful with the
stamp of genius and. .soul, with all their
faults of execution they attained to what
the later masters sought and toiled for in
vain. The suffering heart of the girl found
companionship and sympathy in .the tearful,
patient faces that looked at her from the old
canvases, made sacred by the golden glow
of Time. Crude, almost grotesque, yet how
powerful in their appeal to the purest and
Holiest in our natures.

" Here is a picture I want you to look at
carefully," said Mr. Carnegie, " St. Fran-
cis of Assisi in ecstasy. It was painted
by Filippo Lauri. The story is that St.
Francis, being ill, thought music might
relieve his sufferings, but being too humble
to grant himself the pleasure, God rewarded
his virtue by sending a choir of angels to
sing to him. See, the poor saint, worn out j
by watching and fasting, has fallen asleep j
on a rock, holding a cross to his breast, j
What a seraphic vision he beholds ! what
enchanting sounds burst upon his ears ! His
whole body expresses the lassitude of pro-
found repose ; the ineffable peace and joy
depicted on his face show that angels are
ministerinsr to him. To me it is a wonder- i
ful picture. I am never weary of looking |
at it.

" Here is a portrait that pleases me more
than all your saints," said Mrs. Tremaine,
"this picture of an ancient coquette, the

Mona Lisa of Leonardo da Vinci ; she is
not lovely, and yet she is conscious of her
power, and sits there as proudly as though
she were born to command the world.
She has a very ugly nose, and no eyebrows,
and yet her face fascinates ; perhaps it is the
expression of her wicked eyes."

" No," replied Mr. Carnegie, laughing,
" it is the power of coquetry ; every line
of her face, the languishing eyes, the se-
ducing mouth, the imperious smile, all show
she was a heartless flirt."

" I don't like the picture," said Con-
stance, turning away ; " here is one I prefer,
this beautiful Conception of Murillo. The
Virgin seems to float in the clouds ; and can
anything be more exquisitely lovely than
the rapt, holy expression of her face, or
the innocent sweetness of the angels and
cherubs surrounding her? "

" You have selected for your especial
approval the finest picture in the collec-
tion, or perhaps I should say the one
which cost the most money," observed Mr.
Carnegie; "it was bought in 1852 at the
sale of the collection of the Duke of Dalma-
tia for the sum of 515,300 francs. Is not
1 that a proof of its merit ? "

" Net entirely,", replied Constance. " The
Mona Lisa cost almost as much, beside
causing no end of trouble between the Ital-
ian and French governments, and I do not
1 think the pictures at all to be compared in
j regard .to merit or beauty."

" Ah, Constance ! " laughed Mrs. Tre-
maine, " you look at the portrait of the
unfortunate La Jaconde with the eyes of a
j virtuous woman, and you are prejudiced
i against her picture because of her life. Is
it not so ? But I have no such scruples. I
think it the most remarkable thing in the
Louvre."

Each day brought with it eome new amuse-
ment and distraction, and Madame Landel
rejoiced secretly at the happy change in
her beloved charge. Gradually the smile
returned to her lips, and chased array the
sad, unquiet expression that had too often
rested there ; the indifference she had shown
to life had given place to a cheerful and
hopeful interest in everything connected
with her future.

The summer was passing away rapidly ;
August was nearly over. The heat had
been very oppressive, and one day, late in
the afternoon, they had all gathered in the
garden. The ladies, in loose white dresses,
reclined languidly on the low rustic seats,
fanning themselves to produce the faintest
breath of air. Mr. Carnegie Jay stretched
at full length on the grass, reading to them
from Lamartine's Fior d' Alizn. II u read
well and with much expression the exqui-
sitely beautiful introductory remarks of the
author. When he had finished he remained

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

a few moments in deep thought, and then
said, " Why is it that the most simple
thing Lamartine has written is a poem in
itself? "

" Because he -writes from his own experi-
ence," replied Constance ; " all he portrays
he has felt and suffered, and he has written
a series of dramas, in every one of which he
has been the principal actor. *No one can
so well describe to us stage-life as he who
has seen it in its different phases, as he
who has appeared for an hour before an ad-
miring audience, flushed with success and
bewildered with music and light. Then he
turns behind the scenes ; the lamps are
extinguished, the throbbing pulse of melody
is still, the applause of the crowd no longer
sounds in his ears, he sees the gorgeous
transformations are nothing but painted
boards and paper in fact, reality is before
him in all its dreary ghastliness, and he
wonders how, for even one moment, he
could hare been dazzled by the illusion.
At times Lamartine forgets, for a little, the
pathos and sadness of life ; his mournful
experiences fade away and are clothed in
the softening drapery of time, and the
murmuring voices of his dreamy youth are
deadened by the strife of the world. Its
pride, ambition, and pomp lure him from
the past, offering him in exchange less of
sweetness and purity, more of fame and
glory. Suddenly he remembers he has
lived and suffered ; then he dips his pen
deep into the fountains of his heart, and
writes a poem overbrimming with the pathos
and tender majesty of a life-long sorrow."

" You are an ardent admirer of Lamar-
tine," said Mr. Carnegie ; " am glad I have
selected this work from all his others to read
this afternoon. There is such a rustic sweet-
ness and simplicity about it, so appropriate
to the time and scene."

Constance did not reply ; she was think-
ing of the words he had read, and how ap-
plicable they were to her own experience.

An hour after, when she was sitting alone
with Madame Landel, she said, " Is it not
strange how a little time changes our whole
lives, and even our feelings ? I seem to have
lived more in this last year than in all my
life before. I wonder if this discipline has
improved and strengthened my character.
I hope dear papa, from his home above,
looks with approval on my efforts to be

Ratient and resigned. I have done very
ttle good to any one, only I have tried not
to make those around me unhappy. Do you
think 1 have entirely failed ? " she inquired,
with a little touch of anxiety in her voice.

" No, my dear," replied her friend ; "you
have at least made me happier by trying to
be cheerful, and I know, if your papa is
permitted to watch over you, he will rejoice
that you are renewing your interest in life,

and trying so sweetly and patiently to learn
the hard lesson of submission. Believe me,
in time you will be happy. You are younir ;
your life is all before you. What can pic-
vent you, if you do your duty to youivelf
and your fellow-creatures, from finding your
reward in a calm and peaceful future ? "

" I know," she said, " my life has still
many blessings ; but yet there aie times
when such a sense of utter bereavement
fills my heart that I cannot support it un-
murmuringly. I will endeavor to be what
dear papa would wish ; I will try to live for
something beside myself. I see now more
clearly into the ills of life. The sorrows of
the heart are like well-read books to me ; I
have learned their characters, and I know
them, no matter how well concealed, for I
look far below the surface, and I fee the
poor soul tempted, struggling, suffering, and
I long to do something to aid it, that it may
gain the victory."

CHAPTER XIII.

IN SEARCH OF HAPPINESS.

ONE morning Constance entered Madame
Landel's room with an open letter in
her hand.

" I have just received this from Lady
Dinsmore," she said, ' such a long, kind
letter ; and I am so glad she has decided
to spend the winter in Italy, or at least a
portion of it. Hear what she says :

" ' Do not wai' in Paris for us, as my du-
ties will detain me in England until the
commencement of the winter. Go on to your
destination, Florence, Rome, or Naples,
whichever it may be, and we will join you
there. There are many reasons why I
should not leave England, but a longing de-
sire to see again the land of art and song,
and the benefit it may be to my child, in-
duce me. to do so.'

" I had hoped," continued Ccnstance,
" that she would join us here, but as she
cannot leave England at present, I have de-
cided, if it meets with your approval, to go
directly to Rome, where I wish to spend the
winter. I think Mrs. Tremainu will accom-
pany us ; she told me yesterday she had
about decided to do so ; and you know Mr.
Carnegie spends all his winters in Rome ;
fo we shall be a very pleasant party. Does
this arrangement suit you, dear Madame ? "

" Yes, my child, perfectly. How soon do
you intend to leave ? "

" I think, if Mrs. Tremaine is ready, we
must start by the first of October, and it is
now the middle of September ; so it will be
in a fortnight."

" Very well, my dear, you :::uit flni.rh

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

your sight-seeing with Mrs. Tremaine, and
I will remain quietly at home. 1 have seen
all the places of interest years ago, and
nothing is new to me in Paris. Then there
is a little shopping to be done, which I will
attend to; so you will have your time entire-
ly free until we leave."

" Do always just as you think best, dear
Madame," replied Constance, kissing her
fondly as she left the room to find Mrs.
Tremaine.

Mr. Carnegie was delighted with the de-
cision. He was anxious to get back to
Rome, which he declared was paradise com-
pared with any other place. Madame de
Marc, at first, could scarcely be brought to
consent to Mrs. Tremaina's leaving her.

" You are my child," she said, " and I
cannot get on without you. It is cruel to
abandon me for new friends."

Helen kissed her, wept over her, and pet-
ted her, declaring nothing would induce her
to go, only her hualth required it.

" It is absolutely necessary that I should
spend the winter in Italy. You remembsr
last year how I suffered from this dreadful
climate. I am sure if I remain another
twelve months hare, at the end of the time
I shall be a fit subject for Pere la Chaise."

Madame da Marc looked at her smiling,
rosy face, and did not seem at all convinced
by her reasoning ; however, after much pro-
testing and debating, she finally acquiesced
sadly and reluctantly. After she had done
so, she felt as though a shadow of coming
evil had Mien upon her.

Every hour of the succeeding days was
employed in visiting the remaining places of
interest, chopping, and keeping appoint-
ments with milliners and dressmakers, until
Mr. Carnegie declared they intended opening
a module's establishment in Rome.

" 1 have bought very little," Constance
would say. " It is Mrs. Tremaine to whom
all these belong. I have no need of fine
things, as I shall not go into society be-
cause of my mourning."

The evenings were too chilly and the
days too short to allow them to spend much
ti.mii in the garden ; now they all assembled
in the salon instead, where they sipped
their tea ancl chatted before the fire, or
listened to Helen's sweet voice.

" Do sing for us, Miss Wilbreham," said
Maiame de Marc, "just one song before
you leave. I have never even heard your
voice."

Much to the surprise of Madame Landel,
she seated herself at the piano, and com-
menced in a sweet but tremulous voice La \
P.irtenza of Schubert ; but before she had I
finkhel sha burst into tears and left the
room. It was the first time she had sung
f ia'je her father's death, but she never re-
i'-.i e J afterwards. Indeed, she seemed to

find a relief in pouring out the sorrows of
her heart in pathetic music.

At last all was arranged, and the morning
came for .their departure. The ladies bade
Madame de Marc adieu with tearful eyes.
Mrs. Tremaine burst into sobs, and, with
real sorrow at leaving her friend, protested
at the last moment she would not go.
Madame de Marc gently soothed the weep-
ing girl, with a strange agony at her own
heart, a feeling of coming calamity, that
the circumstance little warranted.

The luggage was arranged, the last fare-
wells were said, and Mr. Carnegie, flushed
and tired from his unusual exertion, gave
the coachman the order to start.

Constance and Mrs. Tremaine leaned
from the window, bowing, smiling, and
wiping away the tears, until the carriage
turned and they caught the last glimpse of
Madame de Marc standing in the court sur-
rounded by her servants. Then Helen
threw herself back on the seat, and cried,
with a choking sob, " I cannot tell why, but
I feel I shall never see her again."

The day proved to be rainy and foggy,
and they were very glad to remain at Lyons
over night. They found little to interest
them in this Manchester of France, and the
next morning they continued their jour-
ney.

It was a delightful day, fresh and clear
after the rain. The blue Rhone flashed
and quivered in the sunlight, and far away
on the distant mountains, whose summits
were still capped with fleecy clouds, net-
tled smiling vineyards, yellow villages with
bright-tiled roofs, spires, turrets, and ruined
towers, one succession of pictures, stately
Avignon, once the stronghold of the Papal
power, now showing decay amid the gran-
deur of its castellated summits and ruined
palaces; Valence, where the weary lace-mak-
ers toil all day over the dainty web, to adorn
idle beauty in far-away countries. On they
sped with lightning-like velocity, past an-
cient cities, beautiful villages, fair plains,
and flashing rivers, until suddenly the blue
Mediterranean burst on their si<;ht, studded
with islands and dotted with uhito.-aiU'd
boats.

The heart of Constance beat with sudden
joy at the lovely scene spread before her.
" At last, at last," she thought, " I am
drawing near classic ground ; I behold the
sea whose waves touch the land of art,
music, poetry, tradition, and romance."

Her musing was interrupted by tin ir ar-
rival at Marseilles, the oldest city in France,
founded six hundred years before Christ.
Travellers seldom find much to interest
them in Marseilles, but to our party, who
were prepared to see beauty in everything,
it seemed a most charming place.

They drove through the magnificent

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

Rue Noailles to the Chateau Barelly, and
there a scene of surpassing beauty spread
before them.

In front wa-; the old gray chateau, rich
in pointed turrets, porticos, and quaint carv-
ing, surrounded by grounds laid out in the
most elaborate designs; long drives m;,d.-
dark and sombre by interlacing branches,
festooned with ivy, graceful vines, and
climbing rose?, b"ds <;f gorgeous tropical
flowers, among which (lamed the oleander
and blood-red cactus, fountains flashing in
the sunlight, statues gleaming among the
; lakes and cascades, rustic bridges,
ic temples, brilliant pagodas, and half-
concealed towers ; in fact, everything in
nature and art to render the .scene as near
paradise as the devices of man can fashion
earth. Away in the background rose the
mountains, purple against the blue sky, with
little white villages nestling; in all their
gorges, and dotted over with patches of
emerald green and gold, as the r-un painted
a field of grain, or a yellow vineyard ; and
away to thy right sparkled and flashed the
wide, free Mediterranean. Whatever has
been said or sung in praise of the b'ucr.ess
of its waves has not been exaggerated ;
there is something truly indescribable in
the depth and tenderness of th3 color, a
warmth, a limpid ness, that partakes of the
tone of the sky smiling above it. They
drove along a beautiful road, built around
the head of a deep bay. On one side is
the sea, covered with majestic ships under
full canvas, steamers leaving far behind
a trail of smoke, like touches of dusky
bronzs against the clear sky, and little
dancing white-sailed boats, some bearing
gay streamers and prows painted in as
many colors as a bouquet of flowers ;
on the other side are high perpendicular
cliffs of yellow clay, brilliant with wild
cactus and oleander, and crowned on the
summit with gay villas and overhanging
gardens. A little distance from tiie shore,
and making a grim, dark blot on the sunny
sea, is the castellated rock known as Chateau
d' If, the scene of the romance of Monte
Cristo. At the right of that a ledge of j
gray Iim3stone extends far into the sea, and
at its base on sunken rocks rise two small
lighthouses, so small and so far below that
they look like painted toys ; and perched
so high above, on a perpendicular cliff, that
the turrets seem to touch the sky, is the
Church of Notre Dame de la Garde, and
at its base the whole great city, watched
over by thh sacred edifice.

" O, what a scene of beauty ! " said Con-
stance, " and how refreshing after the din
and bustle of Paris ! "

" Look there, below," cried Mr?. Trc-
maino, whose eyes were fixed on the beach,
where a number of people were gathered.

'' Do you sec that woman sitting on a rock,
with her face buried in her hands V Poor
I thing ! what can be the matter 1 .'' ''

"Let us go down and inquire," said Mr.
Carnegie, " or, if you prefer, remain here,
and I will go alone."

" No, let us all go," said Constance ; " if
she is suffering we may be able to help her.''

As they drew near the spot they saw
before them a forlorn-looking girl, poorly
dressed, crouched on the shore, her face
buried in her hands, and her straight black
hair unfastened and trailing in the sand,
while near her stood an infirm old man, re-
garding her with the most profound sorrow.

" What is the matter with her V " inquired
Mr. Carnegie, as the old man took ell' his
red cap.

" Ah mon Dicu ! Ma pauvrc Marie. / " he
replied, in the trembling tones of age. " A
happier, gayer child than she was YOU never
saw. Two weeks ago to-day she was married
to Pierre, the handsomest lad on the coast.
A few days after he went out to fi.-h, a
squall struck the boat within hailing dis-
tance of the diorc ; she went down before
our eyes, and that night his poor body was
washed ashore, here in this very spot, dead."
At the sound of the word ' dead," the girl
raised a haggard face, lighted up. with n
pair of wild black eyes, and repeated slowly,
" Dead, yes, dead," and then sank back into
her former position.

" We cannot keep her away from this
spot; she will come here to stay d;;v a;.d
night. mon Dicu ! Ma ]Hiuvr>

"Poor thing," said Constance, laying her
hand tenderly on her head, " how
ble ! You must take her away direct!-
this place ; she will be better for a chiin^c " ;
and, opening her purse, she poured ii
tents into the hand of the astonished old
man, who had never seen so much gold
before.

" Dieu mix bc'niffc, Mademoiselle! I will
do so, and it may save my child."

"I do not know which to pity the most,
the girl or the poor old mnn," said Helen,
a*s they turned away. " Who would have
expected to witness such a scene of sorrow
here, where all seems so gay and cheer-
ful?"

" It is a sad ending to our drive," re-
marked Madame Landel; "but it w
to teach us the uncertainty of life and
earthly happiness."

As they mounted the hill toward N-itre
Damede la Garde, they met a nu rr\ wedding
party descending. They were ymnri and
handsome, but brown and r>>u:.di with sun,
wind, and lab.ir, dressed in their holiday
finery, surrounded by their friends, tluir
broad brown faces beaming wi.'h happiness
and good-humor.

"Life looks very bright to them at this

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

moment, remarked Mr. Carnegie ; " let us
hope a more fortunate fate for the bride
than that of the poor girl below."

" I have found out by sad experience that
the Mediterranean can be rough and stormy
as well as blue and calm," said Constance,
as she crept to the deck, leaning on Mr.
Carnegie's arm, after a bad night between
Marseilles and Civita Vecchia. " Put me
in a safe place near Mrs. Trernaine, and then
please go down for Madame Landel ; she is
almost helpless from sea-sickness."

" O what a night, thunder and light-
ning, wind and rain, and such a sea ! I
thought the ship would be lost," said Helen,
piteously. " I never will go on the sea again.
What could have induced us to come this
way ? "

" Never mind, dear, it is all over now,"
replied Constance, " and the sea is lovely
this morning. See, we are passing between
Elba and Corsica. How strange that these
two islands should be, one the birthplace,
and the other the prison, of Napoleon ! 1
fancy the poor captive must have looked
often with longing eyes toward the spot
where he had passed the glad days of child-
hood, wishing he could forget all the cares
and sorrows of his ambitious life, to be a
free, happy child in his old home."

" I think it would have cured him of his
ambition if he had been sea-sick a little,"
said Helen, languidly raising her head and
glancing around. " I am sure I should be
willing to be even a prisoner if I could only
land at once."

The next morning all were on deck early,
for Civita Vecchia was in sight, and they
were as anxious to see the place of their
destination as though they had been on the
sea for weeks. All the passengers now
came on deck, some for the first time during
the voyage, and indeed they were a motley
crew. There was a bishop surrounded by
some twenty monks and priests ; they were
in the midst of a warm discussion, talking
in several languages at the same time, and
gesticulating freely. Among them were
several Carmelite priests, large, dark men,
dressed in picturesque loose white robes
with large sleeves and pointed hoods, and
their heads shaved to a narrow ring of hair,
strong, handsome men, fit to do battle with
the world, spoiled by these womanly robes
and bald heads. The others in black looked
like gloomy ravens ; they talk, take snuff,
and glance at their breviaries at the same
moment, excited and eager for the first
sight of the Eternal City. They come, pil-
grims from far away, to worship at the great
shrine, the centre of the Catholic world, St.
Peter's.

Here is a group of nuns, pale, meek,
devout women robed in black, with heavy
rosaries, their hands folded and their eyes

downcast. They too are about to realize
a long-anticipated joy. The remainder of
the passengers are made up of different na-
tions, Italians, Greeks, Spaniards, Ger-
mans, and English, coming from different
lands, each to worship in his own way at
the same shrine.

The sea is as blue and calm as though no
tempest had ever ruffled its placid surface,
and the long low line of Tuscan shore lies
bright and beautiful in the morning sunlight,
Civita Vecchia, aged, quaint, and dreary,
perched in sombre gravity on the edge of
the blue sea. A little bustla of importance
is imparted by a frigate and a garrison,
otherwise the most important seaport in the
papal dominions would be as deserted and
silent as mined Pompeii.

Mrs. Tremaine and Constance amused
themselves by giving sous to the beggars,
while Mr. Carnegie went through the an-
noyance of opening trunks and boxes for
the custom-house inspectors.

At last all is arranged, and they are seat-
ed in the quaint, rattling carriage, drawn
by two scrubby horses, ornamented with
plumes and jangling bells; the postilion
cracks his whip, gives an unearthly yell, and
away they go, followed by the shouts of
beggars and the barking of dogs.

They stopped a few moments at Palo to
change horses.

" What a dreary, romantic place 1 " cried
Mrs. Tremaine.

And indeed it was, a perfectly level
stretch of marshy ground ; a castle by the sea ;
a few cottages scattered here and there ;
herds of horses and sheep tended by their
respective shepherds, who now and then
droned out a wild, plaintive wail on their
pipes, which was taken up by one and an-
other, and repeated far away, until it died
into distance and silence ; a white mist,
rising spectre-like over the land, and the
sad twilight brooding over all.

Near the little osteria was an immense
cactus, said to be over a hundred years old ;
it was fifteen feet high, and the leaves were
ten or twelve inches thick, and were com-
pletely covered with names and dates cut
into the surface.

" What a strange record ! " said Mr. Car-
negie, laughing, "a unique way to regis-
ter one's same. However, it is likely to be
more lasting than simple paper and ink ; and
I see many autographs the writers of which
have been famous for the last fifty years. But,
poor old book, you must soon close up, for
your leaves are all full." However, he Ibund
a little place on a sprouting leaf, and added
his initials, which he said would grow and
increase in size long after he was dust and
ashes.

So they went on their way, leaving Palo
by the sea to mist and darkness. A few

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

hours afterward they entered the gloomy
Porta Cavallegieri, and suddenly came un-
der the colonnades and into the square of
St. Peter's. The vast pile, outlined against
the blue-black sky, seemed more immense
and impressive than when seen under the
full light of day.

" Now," they all exclaimed, simulta-
neously, " we know we are in Rome ! "

CHAPTER XIV.

SANTO SPIRITO.

' The poet in a golden clime was born,

With golden stars above,

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of loviv'

IN the autumn of 1834, some twenty-five
years before the opening of our story,
the nuns of the foundling hospital of Santo
Spirito at Rome were gathered in the re-
fectory taking their comfortable supper.

" What a hard day this has been ! " said
Sister Agatha, the sweet-looking nun who
sat always in the camera delta rota'.
" Thirty-five little innocents, and none of
them over a day old ! "

" Are all the wards full ? " inquired the
Superior, a benevolent nun of forty years or
more.

" All are full," replied Sister Seraphina,
the guardian of the wards ; " not a place for
another, unless a little one who came Sun-
day drops off to-night, and I think he will
before another hour. Six to-day ! It is
really a pretty sight to sea them all lying in
the chapel side by side like so many little
marble figures, sweot innocents ! " Sister
Seraphina was interrupted by the sudden
and imperative sound of a bell. Sister
Agatha, starting up, exclaimed, " Madonna
mia ! there is the bell again. Thirty-six
times it -has rung to-day, and not a place
for another child." And, taking a small
lamp, she hastened to the camera della rota,
followed by Sister Serajphina.

The wheel turned, and there, in the lit-
tle velvet-lined basket with the golden em-
blem of the Santo Spirito on the canopy,
lay a child of a few days old, so lovely that
Sister Agatha, in all the hundreds she had
transferred from the rota to the ward
basket, had never seen one so beautiful.

"Angela mio L" she exclaimed, bending
over it, entranced. " What eyes, and such
soft little curls ! and how fair and white !
Does any one wish to speak ? " she inquired
at the grating. " They have gone," she
said, " and in a hurry," as no answer came.
" How could any one abandon such an
angel as this But let us examine him to see
if there is any mark or name by which he
may be known."

" Nothing, I declare, said Sister Sera-
phina ; ' but see how fine his linen is, and
what rich lace! This is no 'common lial.y.
We must keep watch over the child ; there
is some mystery connected with him. But
what shall we name him ? I am sure I can
think of nothing."

" To-day is San Clemcnte ; but we can't
name them all after the same saint, thirty-
six Clementes in one day is too many."

While they were talking the child lay
quite still in the lap of Sister Agatha, look-
ing in her face with large, solemn brown
eyes. Suddenly he broke into a little pitiful
wail ; the nun pressed him to her In-art and
soothed him gently. " I have decided," she
said, after a few moments' thought, and her
eyes were filled with tears as she spoke.
" I will name him for my only brother,
who died a few weeks ago ; yes, I will
name him Guido, Guide Bernardo." So
she opened the book and registered it,
No. 36, October 23, md stamped it with
the seal of the Holy Spirit.

" Now," she said, " tell Padre Filippo
there is another to baptize, and we will
take him to the chapel."

They found a priest waiting, a dull, fat
man in a dirty surplice, and rather cross
because he had been interrupted in the
midst of his supper. When he saw the
child ne muttered, " Another ! " and crossed
himself as if he feared contamination from
the innocent who smiled in his lace. He
took the oil from the altar-boy and rubbed
it behind the ears, and crammed his
finger covered with salt into the dear little
mouth, at which the child wailed piteously.
He then sprinkled it freely with water,
mumbled over the name Sister Agatha had
given him, made the sign of the cross on its
forehead and breast, and then went away to
finish his supper, feeling that he had added
one more lamb to the fold of Christ.

As they turned to leave the chapel they
were- met at the door by one of the nurses,
who carried a little cold, stark figure; it
was the baby who was brought on Sunday,
and had died just in time to leave its bed
to the new-comer. Sister Seraphina took it
from the woman, and, turning to a sort of
shelf before the altar covered with a white
sheet, she laid it down side by side with six
other little marble figures, their pinched
baby faces wearing a look of prematut
pitiful to behold. They composed its ten-
der limbs, and Sister Seraphina, bending
over it, said, softly, " Sicjnor mio, have
mercy on this little soul, and may it be with
Thee to-night in paradise ! Seven more
angels to sing before the Madonna. Thank
God they are gone!" And sighing softly.
=he turned away and left the little sleepers
before the altar, with the dim light from the
swinging lamp falling over them. Tho next

WOVEN" OF MANY THREADS.

morning they would ba laid away in a cold,
dark grave in the Campo Santo, with a
little nameless white cross above the spot.

Sister Agatha selected the healthiest,
sweetest-tempered nurse for her little charge,
and did not leave him until she saw him
sleeping in the most comfortable bed. She
kissed him over and over, and drew the
curtains together with a lingering fond-
ness.

Many poor little abandoned children
came, suffered a few days, and then died, or
were taken away from the hospital to be
nursed ; the number of the arrivals did not
decrease, neither did the number of deaths.
Yet the little Guido grew and flourished,
and every day added something to his in-
fantine loveliness. Sister Agatha and Sister
Seraphina tried which could exceed the
other in attention and affection. And ths
nurse declared it was never a mortal baby,
but a little angel sent from heaven to make
them all batter and more patient. " It smiles
always, and yet there is something in its
face that haunts me, and I can never for-
get it, even when I close my eyes in the
night."

One day, about six weeks after -the child
had come, Sister Agatha sat alone in the
camera della rota, engaged in arranging
her books for the approaching examfhation
of the directors. Soune one tapped at tho
door. "Entrate,'' she said without looking up.
When she raised her eyes a short, dark
woman stood before her, a rather plain,
but honest face, with a large crimson mark
on the left cheek. She was neatly and
plainly dressed as a servant, in a shawl,
with a white kerchief over her head ; she
looked sad, and her eyes were red with
wesping.

" Well, Filomena, what can I do for you ?
Are you in trouble again ? Have you lost
another baby ? "

" Ah, Madonna mia I I have lost my
only one, my last baby, and he was so
bright and healthy until a few hours before
his death. It is the fourth, and I have no
courage to bear it patiently. I dislike to
put another baby to my breast, but I must ;
rny milk will not dry up, so I have come for
a nursling. Ah, misera me .' it is the fourth
time I have come."

" The wards are very full, and we are
glad to send some of the children out. Come
in and select one ; but I suppose if you have
another child you will bring it back."

" Yes," replied the woman. " I am too
poor to keep a child long that is not
mine."

They entered the ward, and Filomena
passed from one bed to another, raising the
curtains and looking with close scrutiny at
each little sleeper, until she paused at the
cot of Guido and exclaimed, " Here is

one I will take ; it is like the child I have
lost ! "

" No, no ! " said Sister Agatha almost
fiercely, " not that one ; we can 't spare him,
he is our little pet. Take any other " ; and
she bent over the child as if to shield him
from danger.

The little creature awoke and smiled in her
face. "Angela mio," she said, "they shall
not take thee away " ; and kissing it over
and over she left the bed.

As she turned she saw the woman leaving
the ward.

" What ! " she exclaimed, " are you not
goins to take a child ? "

" No," she replied, sullenly, " not unless I
can have that; he is like my dear baby, and
I could love him. I can 't take another ;
beside, you said I could have my choice."

" It is true, -Filomena, it is true, you
can have your choice. It is one of the laws
of the institution to show no partiality, and I
have no right to interfere between you and
your choice," replied Sister Agatha with
tears in her eyes. " But I love (his little
thing, and I can't bear to lose it. The
Blessed Virgin is kind ; she knows I am fixing
my affections, that should all belcng to her
and her dear Sen, on this child, and so she
sends you to take him away to save me from
further sin. To-night 1 will repeat forty
times ' Hail Mary,' and the Mother of God
will forgive me. Yes, Filcmena, you may
have the child, but be good to him."

She took the sweet baby in her armp,
pressed her pale cheek against his rosy little
face, kissed over and over the rings of his
glossy hair, then, making the sin of the
cross on his breast, she wrapped him in a
warm, thick blanket and gave him to Filo-
mena. " Bring him to me once a week, so
that I may see that he is doing well," she
said, in a husky voice.

The woman premised to do so, and went
away with her precious burden.

Poor Sister Agatha walked slowly back
to the camera della rota with a great va-
cancy in her heart; mere than once she
pressed her crucifix to her lips and mur-
mured earnestly & pater nosier. Alter that,
the nurses noticed that she did not visit
the wards as often as when the little Guido
was there.

Every week Filomena brought the child
to Sister Agatha, who found him more love-
ly and interesting each time. The poor
nun's sad face lighted up with joy when she
pressed him to her bosom, and if by chance
his little caressing hand touched her thin
cheek, a flush would rest there a moment
and then die away, leaving her paler than
before. She would put the child suddenly
from her as though she had been guilty of
some crime because she had listened to the
yearning cries of her woman's heart.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

One day, when he was a few months old,
Filomena brought him back and ' gave him
into the arms of Sister Agatha, saying, with
choking sobs, that her husband would not
allow her to keep him any longer, because
she had procured a situation in an English
family that required all her attention.

" I cannot bear to part with him an hour,
I love him so, and he is so good and gentle.
Angela mio, Guido mio," she said over and
over, pressing pussiimate kisses on his little
hands and face before she left him.

Sister Seraphina's rosy, good-natured face
broke into radiant smiles when she saw the
child brought back to the ward again ; and
Sister Agatha said more pater no-tiers than
ever that night, but still there was a look of
sweet contentment on her face that had not
been there for some time.

From that hour the little Guido, in spite
of the laws of the institution, became the
pet of the whole sisterhood ; even the Su-
perior often had him for hours in her room,
and when he commenced to walk, dozens
of loving hands were stretched out to support
his tottering steps and guard him from all
danger, and the first utterance of those
baby nothings, those meaningless little
sounds, were often converted into words of
profound wisdom. O^her poor, ugly, pitiful
little babies came and went, with scarcely
proper attention, while this little baauty
was pampered and petted as much as was
ever the only heir to a noble house, and yet
no one knew aught of his birth. Sister
Agatha spent hours in dreaming of the
probable future of this -child, for she never
doubted that he was of noble or even
princely birth ; and never did a grand car-
riage drive up to the hospital, and an ele-
gant-looking lady or gentleman alight, to
visit the institution, but her poor heart
would throb with an agony of fear that his
parents had come to claim him, or some
rich, childless people would wish to adopt
him. Her first impulse would be to hide
him, then she would remember how sinful
such thoughts were, and impose an extra
penance on herself. But no one claimed
him, neither did any one offer to adopt
him. Perhaps the casual glance of the visit-
or did not detect the beauty in the child
that the poor nuns saw when they, in
their thoughts, likened him. to the infant
Jesu.

Every week Filomena- came to see him,
bringing with her toys and bvnbon*, to pro-
cure which she had often robbed herself
of the very necessities of life. She always
spoke of him with strange authority, saying
that when matters went better with them
shs should take him again.

So time passed on, and Guido reached his
eighth year, as beautiful and intelligent
a child as ever was seen. He came and

went, wandering at will through the wards
and long corridors, prattling French with
the French nuns and Italian with the Ital-
ians. Sister Agatha taught him in
and the happiest hours of her life wore.
when she held the child on her lap, and
heard his sweet innocent lips murmur some
little verse or prayer s-he had taught him.
He was not a gay child ; he seldom laughed
aloud, and was never noisy at his play, but
was always gentle and docile. It seemed
as though some sorrow had marked him
before his birth and still rested upon
him.

The nun would often look into his face,
with .its broad intelligent Ion he ul. around
which clustered curls of soft brown hair, its
straight aristocratic features and melan-
choly eyes, and wonder what talent was
pent up in the little brain; for she m -u-r
doubted that he would prove to be a <ii cat
genius, and would one day astonish the
world.

One afternoon he was in the garden alone,
kneeling before the fountain and dabbling
his little hands in the water that overran
the basin. Sister Agatha watched him
from the window, while he played in an ab-
stracted sort of way unusual in children,
moving his hands up and down in rhythmic:
motion, while his eyes were fixed dreamily
on the blue sky.

" The little angel, what can he be think-
ing of? I dare say the blessed Madonna is
speaking to him," she said, foftly. " She
will not leave such a cherub long to us poor
sinners."

At that moment a bird alighted on the
edge of the fountain, and, turning its head
on one side, began to warble a clear, sweet
song.

The child regarded it a moment, and then,
without changing the dotion of his hands,
he commenced to imitate the notes; at first
low and sweet, then clearer and louder, until
his voice rose to the shrill soprano of the
feathered fonister.

Sister Agatha listened enchanted. "Ah,"
she said, " it is music he loves. I will teach
him, and one day he will become a great
maestro."

That same evening when the setting sun
was painting a golden aureole around the
head of the Madonna over the altar in the
little chapel, the nun took Guido by the
hand and led him to the picture to say his
Ave Marih. A sudden thought seemed to
enter her mind, for she seated In r-elf at the
orian, which was rarely used, and played
s il'tly a few bars of one of Beethoven's sym-
phonies, all the while watcliin-i (lie face of
the child. A hundred varying ex;n->'nns
pa.-1-ed over it, and when she finished be
said in a suppressed voice. ' .-1 >,i;.r<i."
She repeated it several times, then, much to

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

her astonishment, his little fingers strayed
over the keys, touching almost always the
same notes she had played. From that
nit*ht dated the commencement of his musi-
cal instruction. Sister Agatha devoted
every spare moment to this new pleasure.
It was astonishing how rapidly he learned
to repeat everything he heard. Sometimes
the Superior took him to the Church of
Santo Spirito to hear vespers. He would
go into the little chapel after his return and
repeat correctly nearly all he had heard.

One day the Pope came to say high
mass at Santo Spirito, and Guido sang
with a choir of little boys. It was a scene
he never forgot. The great church was
hung with crimson and gold, and aglow with
hundreds of lighted tapers ; the pictures
were all uncovered, and the high altar was
adorned with flowers and with gold and sil-
ver candlesticks. When the Pope entered,
followed by the long procession of cardi-
nals, bishops, priests, and guards, the child's
delight knew no bounds. When the mu-
sic began, and the chorus of young voices
joined, the little soul* rose, pulsed, and
throbbed with the first aspiration of genius,
and overflowed in a strain of such pure and
liquid soprano that every eye was turned
to the orchestra, and all said that some
little angel had descended among them, for
never before were such heavenly strains
heard on earth. When the mass was finished
the Pope asked for the little singer, and
Guido was brought, trembling with excite-
ment, into the presence of his Holiness, who
blessed him, and told him he must go to the
College of San Michele to study, and in a
few years he should become one of his choir
and sing for him always.

The child went back to the hospital, his
little heart bounding with joy ; but when he
told Sister Agatha she only pressed him to
her bosom and burst into tears.

CHAPTER XV.

SAN MICHELE.

A FEW days after Guido sang before the
Pope a cardinal's carriage drew up at
the door of Santo Spirito, and a cardinal
entered and asked for an interview with the
Superior. After a little conversation Guido
was sent for, and he was told tosing before
bis lordship. He instantly complied, filling
the dingy little room with such a flood of
melody that his listener was astonished, and
exclaimed, " It is true, he has a wonderful
voice, and he must begin to study at once
in the College of San Miehele. To-morrow I
will send him a permission to enter, and will
speak to the maestro to devote himself partic-

ularly to the cultivation of this exquisite tal-
ent." He patted the boy on the head, and
looked into the soft brown eyes with inquir-
ing interest, which at once won the child's
confidence and love ; and from that time
he became the warm friend and patron of
Guido.

The next day the boy bade a lingering
adieu to Sister Agatha, the nuns, the wards,
the garden, and the long corridors where
his baby feet had trod, the only home he
had ever known. Filomena was there, hold-
ing by the hand a little dark-eyed girl of nine
years, who was born a few months after she
brought Guido back to the hospital. The
children in their frequent but short inter-
views had become last friends, always call-
ing each other " brother " and " sister."
The boy kissed her over and over, filled her
little apron with, his worn-out toys, and said,
fondly, " Addio, sorella mia. When I have
left the college I shall come to live always
with you."

Sister Agatha led him reluctantly to the
priest who was waiting to accompany him,
gave him many last words of advice, and
impressed upon him to come as often as
once a week to see her.

He promised all she asked in a voice
choked with sobs, kissed her with deep
affection, that never changed or diminished
in all his after life, and, taking the hand of
the priest, the child went out from under
the shadow of Santo Spirito to begin the
life of the man.

When he had laid aside his little jacket,
and put on the straight black frock, the man-
tle, and the broad-brimmed hat of the in-
stitution, he already looked some years old-
er. Every- one would have singled this
child out from all the others as something
superior. His delicate, spiritual face, his
large, melancholy eyes, his soft, curling
brown hair, his small hands and feet, and
his graceful and dignified bearing, separated
him from the vulgar herd. The very per-
fections that set him aside from the others
also made him a butt for petty jealousy and
envy, which arc as apparent in children as
in older persons. Then commenced for the
poor boy a series of annoyances and perse-
cutions which he, petted and cherished as he
had been by the good sisters, found it difficult
to endure patiently. However, he seldom
complained ; if he found his music-copies torn
and blotted, his favorite books hidden, the
stops of the organ filled with paper ; or if he
was saluted with shouts and laughs of deris-
ion ; if, instead of joining in their rough games
at recreation, he preferred to sit apart with
a book, yet there was something in the boy,
that, in spite of their petty malice, inspired
them with a sort of respect and fear that
kept them at a certain distance. And he
even had his followers ; some few who dared

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

to show their preference were devoted, and
almost slavish, in their attachment. He
found his bed hard and dirty, his cell
dark and damp, his food poor and scanty ;
yet he cared for none of these things. Mu-
sic was his passion, and he applied himself
with never-wearying industry.

The maestro, although he was a cruel,
coarse man, was nevertheless a good teacher,
developing to the utmost the talent that had
been placed under his charge by one of the

eatest patrons of music in Koine. The

boy grew slighter and more spiritual each
day, and Cardinal Catrucci, when he visited
the institution, would say, " He studies
too hard, he must have more exercise and
amusement. Why does he not play with
the other boys during the hours of recrea-
tion ? "

" He never will," replied the priest.
" While the others are shouting and halloo-
ing, running and racing, he walks slowly up
and down under the trees, his head bent
over a book, or sits in the garden, with his
arms folded, looking at the sky; and in-
stead of sleeping he gets out of bed, and
goes stealing down the stairs, and through :
the dark passages to the chapel, where he |
plays all sorts of odd wild tunes ; but now
the maestro has put a stop to that ; he won't
have us disturbed at night by the freaks of
this half-uiad boy."

"E un rajazzo tanto curioso" said the
Cardinal, slowly walking away and shaking
his head thoughtfully.

Guido's chief happiness was to sing in the
churches on festa days ; there was some-
thing intoxicating in the decorations, the
lights, the flowers, the pictures, the crowds
of people, and the strains of the orchestra,
that almost made him forget he was on !
earth. And indeed he sang as though he
were already an angel in heaven. People
came from far and near to hear the boy
sing, and before he was twelve years old he
was looked upon as a prodigy.

One day, when Guido was fifteen, there
was a great festa in Santo Spirito, where he
had first su'ng before the Pope. The church
was crowded to overflowing. Sister Agatha
and Filomena were there, both looking with
pride at their boy, who stood in the orches-
tra, his arms folded, his head thrown back
with an air of conscious superiority, waiting
for his solo.

In all his after life.Guiio Bernardo never
forgot that day. The memory of the lights,
the crowd of eager, upturned faces, the sud-
den hush of expectation, the first strains of
the orchestra, and the dim blank that fol-
lowed, often made a cold sweat start on his
brow, and a choking sensation fill his throat
for a moment, when, years from that time, he
arose to sing before a large audience.

The leader raised his baton, the stringed

instruments wailed out a few notes ; Guido
glanced at his music and opened his mouth,
but instead of sweet liquid strains t!i
sued only harsh, discordant sounds; In-
paused, cleared his throat, made another
effort, but in vain ; his voice was gone !
Alas, he could not sing ! The loader looked
at him severely^ a murmur rose from the
crowd, the orchestra sounded miles awav,
the lights danced and whirled, and then
everything grew black and indistinct, and
the boy fell, pale anl unconscious, into the
arms of a singer behind him.

They carried him to the hospital, where
he lay for many weeks ill with l.\.
delirium. Sister Agatha and the nuns
tended him day and night with um\v
care. At last he was convalescent, but the
shadow of himself, more spiritual, more
melancholy than ever. It was the fir-:
disappointment of his life, the first check to
his ambitious dreams. He had fancied hU
future a scene of successes : he had looked
forward eagerly to the time when, his Miid-
ies ended, he should enter the service of the
Pope, his proudest desire. Xow what had
he to live for ? His voice was gone, hi.-
ended before it had scarcely begun. He
thought with agony of the lost homage and
flattery of his audiences, the murmurs of de-
light and admiration that he rdiotild hear no
more ; his fellows had worshipped him t'or a
little while, and the boy was not insensible
to the allurements of fame. Now it was fin-
ished, and perhaps the bitterest drop in his
cup was the thought of the exultant triumph
of his fellow-students, many of whom,
while tlu'y cringed and fawned to him in the
days of his prosperity, hated him with ail the
strength of envy and jealousy. He \r
to himself the severity and unkindness of
the maestro, whose interest in him would
en because he no longer had l !
do him credit. And sometimes ];> even
feared he should lose the friendship and
patronage of the Cardinal.

Poor boy, after he was fully recovered he
went back to San Michele, little caring
what became of him. If it had not
for the patient encouragement, the wise and
tender counsel of Sister A;_aiha. and the
unchanzin-JT affection of Filomena. he would
have sunk entirely under his terrible (li-aj)-
pointment. As it was, his nature seemed to
have changed. He was no lonjyr sweet
and gentle, but silent, moody, and
sullen; he seemed to have, grown taller and
older by years during the lew weeks of ill-
ness and mental suffering. Hi;' lir.-t act
when he entered the College was i<> collect
together his nmsic-b . half-

finished compositions, and put them all
away out of his sight.

" I shall renounce the study of music and
devote myself to something else," he .-aid

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

to the maestro, who paid little attention
to him since he had ceased to be a prod-

" As you please," he replied, coldly ; " but
losing your voice does not prevent you
from" becoming a creditable performer if
you study closely."

" I have no desire," said the boy, gloom-
ily. " In fact, I hate the sound of mu-
sic."

There was no more stealing down dark
passages at midnight into the chapel, no
more hours of dreamy twilight devoted to
sweet and tender harmony, that had filled
his voung soul with ecstasy. Something
seemed to have gone out of his life ; all the
greenness and beauty had faded into dull
cold gray. He was like Beethoven, who,
after he had lost his hearing, seemed also
to have lost his sight.

In this College, where the sciences as well
as the fine arts were taught, he had no diffi-
culty in finding some other employment for
his thoughts and time. Now books became
his only companions ; he struggled with
Greek, Latin, metaphysics, and philosophy ;
he experimented in chemistry and geology ;
he triad to turn the desires of his life into
now channels. But in vain; foijever in his
ears sounded almost mockingly sweet strains
of bewitching melody, and ever before his
eyes were passing combinations of notes
that he knew would produce harmonious
sounds ; but still he turned resolutely away
from . their temptations, saying, " No, no,
you have proved a fickle mistress ; you have
disappointed me once, and I now renounce
you forever."

He lived a life apart from his fellow-
students, he held no more intercourse with
them than was absolutely necessary. Nei-
ther did he endure any longer with pa-
tience their sneers and taunts. A sudden
pallor, a flash of lurid, portentous fire from
the brown eyes, warned them that there
was a lion slumbering under the fleece of
the lamb, which it was best not to arouse.
So gradually they fell off, avoided him,
and left him entirely to his own devices. To
no one but Sister Agatha and the Cardinal
did he express the disappointment of his
retired life. The nun would soothe him
gently, telling him if he never sang again
on earth he would sing more sweetly before
the Madonna in heaven. And the old Car-
dinal, whose friendship and kindness never
abated, would with more worldly wisdom
encourage him to be patient, and later his
voice would return to him sweeter and
stronger than ever; but Guido would only
shake his head mournfully and reply, his
eyes overflowing with tears, " No, no, it is
gone forever."

Through the influence of Cardinal Ca-
trucci he had had a small cell ajskjned to

him alone, and there he often spent most
of the night in chemical experiments, or
trying resolutely to solve some scientific
problem, which too often resulted in failure
and disappointment. Still he found in it a
sort of unsatisfactory satisfaction, if one
might use the term, for it served to distract
his thoughts from the one absorbing sub-
ject. The other students mockingly called
him matto, and left him to live out his days
in loneliness and sadness. The two years
that followed the loss of his voice were
years of bitter trial, hopelessness, and de-
spair to poor Guido ; but nevertheless the
discipline served to strengthen and develop
his character, and his studies opened new
avenues of knowledge that would have re-
mained forever closed if he had devoted
himself only to his beloved art.

From the very first hour Guido entered
the College he understood and telt that the
maestro's interest in him was not sincere,
only assumed to please the Cardinal, whose
patronage he desired. After the loss of his
voice, as / he had no longer any motive for
acting the part he Ifad undertaken, he let
no opportunity pass that offered a chance
to insult or impose some new burden on the
poor boy, who at last determined to endure
it no longer. He was an exquisite copyist
of music, and for a long time the maestro,
unknown to the principal of the College,
had been in the habit of taking manuscript
from the different churches to rewrite and
arrange. This he gave Guido to do, who
at first complied willingly ; but when he
saw that his task increased each day, and
interfered with his studies, it grew very
irksome, and at last became a thorough
drudgery.

One morning he sat at his desk with a
scientific work open before him. He was
not studying ; his head ached and throbbed
in an unusual manner. His eyes were hot
and tired, for he had not slept the night be-
fore until nearly dawn, and these vigils were
telling upon him. " How will all this end ? '
he thought, taking a gloomy retrospect of
the last two years, " how will it end ? I
am wasting my health and youth in pursu-
ing a shadow ; my life is aimless. I shall
arrive at nothing because I strive for noth-
ing. The only pursuit I really loved, and
would have devoted my life to, is impossible
to me now. Why did God give me that

florious voice and then take it away just as
had learned to prize it ? " His sad cogi-
tations were interrupted by the maestro,
who laid before him some sheets of music,
bidding him, in a harsh, authoritative tone,
to copy them immediately.

" I cannot," replied Guido, firmly ; " my
studies require all my time, and you have
no right to exact this of me."

The maestro looked at him a moment m

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

mute astonishment, and then said, in a voice
choked with rage, " Insolent ! How dare
you disobey me '{ Give it to me completed
before night, or you will repent not having
done it."

Guido pushed the manuscript away from
him with a look of proud determination on
his face as he said, " I will not touch it ! I
will never copy another bar of music for
you again ! " He had scarcely finished the
sentence when a stinging blow in the face
staggered and almost blinded him.

Before the hand that dealt the blow had
fallen, he sprang at the throat of the maestro
with the agility and strength of a young
tiger, his face deadly pale, his nostrils dis-
tended, and his eyes like glowing coals of
fire.

" Canct'i'la ! '' he said, between his clenched
teeth ; and he tightened his grasp until the
priest's face grew purple and his eyes rolled
in their sockets, then, with a long look of
scorn* and contempt, he threw him heavily
to the ground.

The noise brought a half-dozen priests
to the spot in a moment, and Guido was
dragged away to a small dark cell, a
place of punishment for all unruly stu-
dents.

There, his whole soul struggling with rage
and indignation, his face still smarting
from the stinging blow, he threw himself
on the pile of straw that served for a bed,
and gave vent to his overwrought feelings
in convulsive sobs.

" O Christ ! " he moaned, " hast thou for-
gotten the suffering of thy life that thou
hast no pity on me ? I would have pre-
ferred to be good and patient and gentle if
this cruelty had not been thrust upon me.
I have tried to bear the reproach of my
birth, my lost hopes, my ruined career ; but
why must I endure insult ? Ungrateful
that I am ! Sweet Jesus, wert thou not buf-
feted, spit upon, and smitten in the face ?
and yet thou hast not complained, while I,
for one blow, one insult, have forgotten all,
and been in my rage like a wild beast ! O
Holy Mother, forgive me ! " and he pressed
almost frantically to his lips the little cruci-
fix Sister Agatha had given him, and prayed
with more tervor of entreaty than ever be-
fore in his life.

When he aro.ve from his knees he was calm
and subdued. The tempest had swept over
a hot and arid dj.-eri-, and now succeeded a
rain of tears. The dry, parched soil was
moistened and cooled, and the hungering,
thirsting soul was filled with peace.

One morning, six days after his confine-
ment, Guido lay on the straw in his cell,
his eyes half closed and dull, his hair matted
and damp, his lips black and parched, and
the fever spot burning hot and red on his
wasted cheeks. The black bread that had

been served to him from time to time lay
on the floor beside him. He had not tatted
any lor several days. But the j:
had been drained with eager ha-u , ;.:,d m.v
he was dying with thirst and it would not
be replenished for some hour.-. The yellow
morning light stole into the narrow .
window, and lingered lo\i:i'jl\ <\<
haggard lace of the" boy. The heavjfclids
drooped lower and lower, and he l;.p.-td lulu
a sort of half delirium, hall* stupor, in which
he was unconscious of his pmt ui II.IM :
loneliness, for he believed l<i:i:;c!t':
child in the garden of Santo Spirito, and ho
babbled faintly of fountains ami li
" How cool and fre^h is the sound oi the
water as it splashes in the La^n, and my
bird sings always the eame tong"; then
again he setmed to be in the little chapel,
and his fingers strayed over the ke\ s < 1 the
organ, while he sang sweet ;md mournful
Ave Marias; or he fancied Liin.-ilf in St.
Peter's, where the painted angels in the
dome acd the marble angels on the pillars
all became living, floating, and moving ; and
all the figures in all the pictures came < ,ut
of the frames and knelt at the altar .
passed to and fro, and joined in the great
procession of white-robed {iik.'l-, \\hi!e he,
high above all, floating in a golden haze,
seemed to sing and ting, ui.til (.very part of
the vast cathedral was filled with wondrous
melody. Then arote from all the dense
crowd below great waves oi , like

the sound of many waters ; and the :
gathered around him and murmured words
of love and welcome, for they told him he
had come to join them and to be with them
forever. Suddenly all changed, and he
seemed to be sinking slowly, slowly down
from a great height of bliss intj darkness
and despair. With the fall he awoke, and
turned his heavy eyes first on the empty
jug, then on the small barred window,
black, bare walls, and heavy, iron-spiked
door.

" All," he moaned, " this is the end of all,
to die in this narrow cell, alone, with
no one to speak a last word of comfort or
to moisten my lips! O for one di;
of pure cold water, one breath oi
morning air ! How soon to die, how
young to finish life ! but it is well." The
old smile of infantine --

up his face, and he clasped his hands in
a sort of ecstasy. " It is well ; 1 shall sing
again."

Suddenly there was a noise of many
voices outside; the door opened, and Gu'ub
saw Cardinal Catrucci on the threshold,
followed by several prie.-ts.

" Father in heaven ! " he exclaimed.
" What does this mean '! Why did you nt
tell me the boy was dying iu this miserable
hole?" '

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

CHAPTER XVI.

VILLA ALDOBRANDINI.

ONE evening in June Guido stood on the
balcony of the Villa Aldobrandini,
leaning on the arm of Cardinal Catrucci.
He was very pale, and wasted almost to a
shadow, but as he gazed on the lovely scene
before him his face lighted up with an ex-
pression of joy and contentment that gave
promise of returning health and happi-
ness.

The setting sun painted with golden glory
all the broad campagna, and brought out
here and there spots of emerald green or
rich warm brown; touched with dusky
bronze the old tombs and ruined aque-
ducts, the decaying monuments of past
glory ; the mountains were bathed in violet
light ; the west was all aglow with streaks
of crimson and gold ; the dome of St. Peter's
stood distinctly outlined against the gor-
geous background ; the seven-hilled eity was
before him. She who had once been the
mistress of the world reclined, aged and
sad, with her robes of antiquity folded in
stately dignity about her.

" How exquisitely beautiful ! " exclaimed
Guido, after a long, intense gaze. " It is
strange I have never before felt the beauty
of nature as now ; perhaps it is because my
heart is at rest and I am happy."

"Poor boy," said the Cardinal, kindly,
" you have suffered so much that comfort
and peace seem like paradise to you. The
evening air from the campagna is too chilly
in your present feeble condition. Let us go
into the garden ; the sound of the cascade
and fountains have a peculiar charm for me
at this hour " ; and, supporting Guido tender-
ly, they passed through the grand hall and
out into the court, where the cascade from
the hillside leapt down its marble stairs,
and fell into the immense basin with a cool,
splashing sound, that made the boy's slug-
gish blood bound and flow through his veins
with syns of returning health.

Terrace rose above terrace, crowned with
ilex, olive, and acacia; against the waxy
blossoms of the orange-trees glowed in
strong contrast the crimson clusters of the
granito. In the midst fell the silvery sheet
of water, white with foam, white as the
new-fallen snow. Above the opening in
the trees hung the crescent moon, with her
lovely attendant gently following in her
wake. The marble statues gleamed against
the dark background, the flowers, heavy
with dew, gave forth their varied and deli-
cate perfume, the birds on tired win^s
whirled and circled and sang a few clear
sweet strains ere they dropped down into
their nests for the night.

" How can I thank you enough for brin"--

ing me here ! " said Guido, sinking down,
pale and exhausted, into a garden chair.

" By getting well and strong as fast as
possible," replied the Cardinal. " During
these two weeks I find you have gained
much, and you look a little less like a spirit
than the day I brought you here. Poor
boy, I thought you would not live a week ! "
and the tears glistened in the speaker's
eyes.

" I had suffered so much," replied Guido.
" I thought I should die alone in that dread-
ful place, shut out from the air and light of
heaven. It seemed about amended for me,
when you came, like an angel of God, to
save me."

" Canaylia ! " said the Cardinal, with an
expression of the deepest disgust. " They
tried to prevent me from seeing you; they
told me twenty lies before I found out where
you were. But never mind talking about
that now, my boy ; it is all over, an^ you
will not go back to San Michele again."

" O, thanks, thanks ! " said Guido, kissing
the hand of his benefactor with an expres-
sion of the deepest gratitude. " I can do
nothing there ; but let me remain with you,
1 shall be so contented and happy."

" Don't think of the future now, the first
consideration is to get well, and then we
shall do what is best. You must not remain
here any longer ; the sun has set, and there
may be poison in this balmy air."

Guido arose, and, throwing back his head
with a sigh of happiness, he exclaimed, " I
know my voice will come back to me ; my
heart tells me I shall sing again. Yes, even
now, I think I could sing."

And, trembling with excitement, he walked
hastily to the house, scarcely leaning on the
Cardinal. Entering the grand salon, dim in
the twilight, he seated liimself at the piano,
and drew forth a few timid, wavering sounds ;
then his touch became firmer, and he played
the prelude to an Ace Maria. Suddenly
his voice broke forth in a plaintive strain.
" Viryine santa, Mad re di Dio," he sang, but
no more in the clear liquid soprano of other
days ; his voice had changed to a rich
contralto. At first it was a little broken and
uncertain, but as he continued it gained in
strength and purity, rising in sweet and
noble pathos, filling with wonderful melody
every corner of the vaulted apartment. The
Cardinal listened in mute astonishment
until the last strain was finished, and then,
springing forward, he clasped Guido in his
arms, almost beside himself with delight.

The boy withdrew himself from the em-
brace of his friend, and raising his eyes to
heaven, with a touching expression of
gratitude, he said, solemnly, " I thank thee,
O God, because thou has been better to me
than I dared hope. Now indeed I am happy."

From that moment Giudo recovered his

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

health rapidly. The sorrow that had so
long preyed upon him was removed ; his
old sweetness of manner returned; his lips
again wore their gentle but half melancholy
smile ; his eyes beamed with joy and grati-
tude. The hope of his childhood was re-
newed to him. The two years that had
intervened were like a dark, troubled dream,
which he tried to forget.

He practised and studied constantly,
seeming contented only when engaged in
his labor of love.

Cardinal Catrucci often smiled with satis-
faction to see how light and firm his step
grew, how clear and happy his voice sound-
ed, as he passed through the gardens and
long corridors of the villa. One day he said
to Guido, ' I have decided as to your future
studies, and have arranged for you to enter
the Conservatory of Bologna, where you are
to remain until you are twenty. Now your
health is re-established we mu>t return to
Rome to make the necessary preparation
for your immediate departure."

Guido heard this news with delight, for it
had been his secret wish to study in this
school, famed throughout Italy. Then close
upon his joy came the sad thought that he
must leave the friend who had been a father
to him, and to whom his heart was bound
by the strongest ties of gratitude and affec-
tion.

AVhen he expressed his sorrow, the Cardi-
nal smiled a little sadly and sai-l,'"I shall
miss you, it is true ; but, my dear boy, you
will find many things in your new life to
distract your thoughts from me; an 1 (hi:
strongest proof you can give me of your
love is to make yourself a career worthy
your talents and noble nature. I ask no
other reward."

When Sister Agatha heard of the change
in the boy's prospects, and when he sang to
her, her joy and gratitude to the Madonna
were expressed with mingled prayers, smiles,
and tears. lt Oli ! " she s lid, looking at him
fondly, "how goo I our Blessed Mother has
been to you ! She has restored your voice,
stronger' sweeter, and more wonderful than
ever. I hope you will show your gratitude
by devoting it entirely to the service of the
Santo PailrK. Forget the world, Guido ; do
not strive lor the applause of men, sing only
to praise God."

Filomena and the nun both busied them-
selves in preparing his linen, and adding
what they c mid to his slender wardrobe.

The little Mona had grown into a mo-t
charming girl, and Guido loved her very
tenderly, lint always with the affection of a
brother. lie often said to himself, ' When I
make a name, and become rich, I will place
her in a. position worthy of her beauty?'

After a little time his arrangements were
completed, and he wen* forth to his new
6

life, loaded with the good wishes and bless-
ings of his friends.

It was a proud and happy day for Guido,
when, after two years' absence, he returned
to Koine with all the honors of the Conser-
vatory heaped upon him,

A fine, manly form, a bearing proud and
<l':t''iii<jui\ a i'ace that expressed tin; ;
and most noble Fcntinicnls, manner:- elegant
and refined, a character calm mid sch-sus-
tained, neither taciturn nor g.-:v. but grave
and gentle. A wonderful talent th.
admired and appreciated placed him at
once in a position that entirely satisfied the
most ambitious wish of his kind patron, the
Cardinal.

Sister Agatha and Filomena r<
him with infinite pride and ti in!en;i -: . He
as no longer to them Guido mio, but il
maestro.

Filomena and her husband had pros:
in a worldly point of view during the ab-
sence of Guido, but a heavy H now had
fallen upon them. Their only child, iheir
lovely, gentle Mona, had suddenly disap-
peared shortly after his departuie, and since
that time s-he had !'e< n as one dead to tin m.
They believed s-hc had strictly nuuiied and
then left her home with a wealthy , v
//,<;!' >r, with whom s-he. was !i\ing
where in elegance and comfort ; nut :die had
abandoned, without a word of farewell, the
parents who loved her to idolatry, and that
was an overwhelming cal; mity to the poor
mother, who had lost all her < hildreii save
this one. Often she would exclaim, " O, if
she had only died with the othei s ! "

Shortly after her di?aj ] c; i M . c a large
sum of money had come to them fiom ;:n
unknown donor, which tl - d to

be a penitential offering f'icm their child,
so they used it to furnish an apartment,
the rent of which suppi.rtt d il.cm in c< m-
fbrt.

' Xow," said Fileiv.ena. alter re-counting
her sad story to Guido. \\l:o listened mourn-
fully, his heart filled with sorrow at the un-
certain fate of the sweet <jirl ulu.m he had
loved as a sister, "now ihat we have no
child, we hope you will live vith us. 'I hi-ve
is a room we never use, which will do nicely
for you, and it is y< nrs always. It i- truest
overlooks the court, but the sun shim s in
pleasantly all day, and the flowers on the
balcony make a pretty bit of color n< m the
window, and you can hear the fountain al-
ways with its "gentle murmur, which i
soothing when one is tired."

Guido thanked the. kind-hearted woman
for her generous oiler, which 1
without hesitation, and when he was finally
settled under her care l-'iloincna seemed al-
most to forget her trouble, for certainly she
was ha;, pier. After holing ;:t Guido. she
would say, with a thoughtful smile, ' Perhaps

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS

now I shall hear from my child, for you have
always Drought me 'good luck."

Sister Agatha came to visit them as often
as her duties permitted her. These were
happy hours for the poor nun ; her heart
was at rest; the child she had so loved and
cared for was settled in life, poor, it was
true, but with an honorable and respectable
career before him.

Shortly after his return, the dream of
Guide's childhood was realized, he became
one of the Pope's singers. His voice during
his studies had developed and strengthened,
and he now sang a pure rich tenor, which
lacked nothing of the expression and pathos
of the soprano with which he had fascinated
the public in his childhood.

It was Easter Sunday when Guido first
sang in the papal choir, and all the angels
in heaven seemed to sing with him as he
walked before the Pope in the imposing
procession. It was a day of rejoicing to the
world, the day of Christ 's resurrection and
triumph, and he joined with his whole soul
in the exulting song of Christus resurgens.
Among the crowd of spectators was Guide's
old enemy, the maestro of San Michele, who
looked at him with the same feelings of envy
and jealousy.

And Sister Agatha and Filomena were
there. Now, indeed, their proudest desires
were realized. How handsome and noble
he looked in his purple silk robes and lace
surplice ! and Cardinal Catrucci glanced at
him more than once, well satisfied with the
result of his patronage.

From that time Guide's position was as
sured. Through the influence of the Cardinal,
and by the charm of his talent ani gentle
manners, he was received into the best
Italian and foreign society. Although he
had reached what then seemed to him the
greatest height to which he could attain, yet
he was not entirely happy. There was a
melancholy, proud reserve in his nature that
kept him from intimate association with
those around him, and he lived almost the
same life of seclusion as in the days of his
scholarship at San Michele. The uncer-
tainty connected with his birth served in a
manner to separate him from the world ;
and although he was accepted and flattered
for his talent, he well knew there was a
barrier between him and society which
could not be levelled. Then the rules of the
papal choir exacted from the members, out-
wardly, the same forms and restrictions that
governed the lives of the clergy ; they were
under vows of celibacy while in the service
of the Pope, and wore the dress of a priest.
This had never been at all irksome to Guido,
on account of his quiet, retired life, and he
had never thought of marriage because he
had never loved. He was a student, no
longer an experimenter; he pursued his

beloved profession with enthusiasm and de-
votion, desiring to gain distinction, not only
as a singer, but also as a composer.

One day, five years after he had entered
the service of the Pope, Guido sat alone in
the same little room that Filomena had
ottered him after his ictum from Bologna.
Outwardly, nothing had changed around
him. The same flowers bloomed on the
balcony, the same fountain sparkled and
splashed in the court below, and the same
sun threw its slanting rays over the picture
of the Madonna that hung above his piano.
But, inwardly, -that great change had come
to him that comes to us but once in a life.
He sat before his piano, but his fingeis only
strayed in dreamy idleness over the minor
notes, his eyes, melancholy but infinitely
sweet, were fixed on vacancy, and a tender
smile played around his mouth.

That day a vision had crossed his path, a
face of delicate beauty haunted him, and a
gentle voice filled with a peculiar melody
every chamber of his heart.

CHAPTER XVII.

CAPELLA DEL COEO.

T was Sunday, and crowds were pouring
into St. Peter's, to listen to the vespers
that the choir were singing in the Capella
del Coro. Being nearly Ave Maria, the vast
building was in half-gloom. The last rays
of sunlight illumined with indescribable
radiance the emblem of the Holy Spirit above
the tribune. The great dome, side chap-
els, and vaulted nave, peopled with marble
and pictured figures, seemed larger and
more mysterious because of the shadowy
and indistinct outlines. The massive bal-
daccldno of bronze covering the high altar
appeared a temple in itself. The light from
the hundred silver lamps around the tomb
of St- Peter threw long slanting rays across
the polished marble fioor. Here and there
kneeling, motionless figures gave an aspect
of quiet solemnity to the whole scene. Al-
though a crowd surrounded the dcor of the
Capella del Coro in the left aisle, the vast
nave was almost empty, and the strains of
the choir singing there could scarcely be
heard by those praying in the tribune.

It was one of those moments when the
soul was best fitted to feel and understand
the sublimity of the place ; when one could
not contemplate long this achievement of
the immortal genius of Michael Angelo and
Raphael without feeling that the God who
reigns in this immensity, and who alone can
fill it*is not only the God of men, but the
God of gods.

Such were the, thoughts that passed

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

through the mind of Constance as she stood !
in the tribune, her eyes wandering from
pillar to pillar down the shadowy length
of the nave, and in some such words did she i
express her feelings to Madame Landel, who
stood near her looking at the beautiful mau-
soleum of Paul III., with its exquisite figures ;
of Prudence and Justice, which the false \
delicacy of modsrn taste has covered with
a drapery of painted lead. Mrs. Tremaine
and Mr. Carnegie paced slowly back and j
forth, discussing the merits of this world-re- ;
nowned temple of the Most High. It was '
th.3 first visit of Constance and Helen, and
nothing could exceed their delight, astonish-
ment, and admiration.

" I am very glad you have seen St. Peter's
for ths first time at this hour," said Mr.
CarnQvie; "no other impression can be so
profound and lasting. The illusion of the
half-light blends and softens all the project-
ing lines that somewhat disturb the harmony
of the whole, making it appear more im-
mense, more solemn, and more mysterious
than under the broad light of day. How
effective' are the golden beams streaming
through the stained window of the tribune
contrasted with the silver rays of the lamps
around the altar, Avhile all the vast dome
and vaulted nave are in shadow ! and see, far
down at the door the people passing in and
out look like tiny moving shadows, and one
can judge something of the size by the far-
off sound of the choir, which is only half
the length of the church from us."

" Let us go nearer," said Constance. " I
prefer to listen to sacred music at this hour,
and in this place it has a double charm ; a
tender melancholy seems to float in the very
air, as though the spirits of the past brushed
with their shadovvy wings the moving forms
of the present."

And so, talking softly as they went, they
walked toward the chaps! where the choir
were singing vespers. Every seat was filled,
and around the door was a dense crowd,
quiet, orderly, but evidently expectant.
With some little effort they pushed their
way into the chapel, and stood leaning
against some massive pillars opposite the
singers.

Constance, who had never bsforcAvitnessed
the gorgeous ceremonies of the Catholic
Church, watched with curioua attention the
priests in their white and gojflen robes,
passing slowly before the canons in their
stalls, swinging the censers and chanting
inharmoniously, while the perfumed smoke
enveloped them all in a cloud that gradually
arose, floated, and dispersed like a silvery
mist into the vaulted pictured roof. She
noted all this with a strange interest, scarcely
heeding the choir, until there burst Upon
her ear a strain of melody, a single voice
so rich and clear, so filled with tender

harmony, that the memory of it never left
her in all her after life. She raised her
eyes, and before her in the low orchestra,
outlined against the golden pipes of the
organ, like a saint of Cimabue, stood a
young man in the classic black robes of a
Roman priest. His arms were folded and
his head slightly thrown back, while over
his pale, earnest face beamed an expres-
sion of deep enthusiasm that, lighted up a
pair of sad dark eyes and lingered around
a mouth of peculiar sweetness. His form
was a little above the medium li>
slight and graceful; his neck ro.-e fr.im th .;
narrow white band like a marble column ;
the head was small, the brow broad and
high, from which the waving brown hair
was thrown back in careless grace, falling
to the shoulders and over the broad collar
of his black mantle, as he stood before them.
He appeared an inspiratiftn of youth and
genius, an almost divine impersonation of
manhood. His face was stamped with the
glowing spirituality of Raphael as well as the
more tender melancholy of his worshipper.
Parmigiano. He teemed unmindful of ail
around him as he poured forth strains the
power and pathos of which touched and
thrilled every heart, bearing the soul with
the mournful pleading melody almost into
the presence of the Holy Mother whose
praises he sang. Constance, with her up-
lifted face and earnest eyes, seemed drinking
in every tone of the wonderful voice. When
he had finished his solo, without as much as
glancing at the crowd below him he turned
and left the orchestra.

" O, what an exquisite voice ! " exclaimed
Mrs. Tremaine. " I think I never heard
any one sing with such expression."

" Do you know his name, Mr. Carnegie ? "
inquired Constance.

" I do not remember, although I heard it
often last winter. He is the Pope's most
celebrated singer."

Quietly the crowd dispersed, and spread
over the church, some kneeling at the dif-
ferent altars, some pacing slowly back and
forth, while others regarded the pictures,
tombs, and statues.

Constance lingered near the monument
of the unhappy Pretender, James the last
of the Stuart kings, thmking sadly of the
poor exile dying far from his own land, of
his vain struggles, his lost and ruined liojx's.
all ending in this record of the uncertainty
of human greatness.

"He rests beneath the shadow of a world-
renowned temple," said Mr. Carne-ie; ' and
his monument is the work of Canova. I
think it nri<iht reconcile one to dying in
exile, if his last resting-] >l;'<>e could !> im-
mortalized by the productions o! ihc. most
Mi'iilime genius of every a-e. Whichever way
we look we see the divine imprint of Michael

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

Angelo, Raphael, Canova, Thorwaldsen, and threateningly at her, while his eyes beamed
a host of other luminaries that have beamed | with pleasure at the memory of a happy
from time to time upon the world with more | day.

or less radiance." And so the carriage rolled on swiftly to-

" I have formed many vague fancies re- j ward the Pincio, by the grim old castle of St.
specting this edifice and its surroundings," Angelo, crowned with the glorious archangel
remarked Constance, as they walked down of Wenschefeld, over the noble bridge built
the gradual de? cent of broad steps that lead by Hadrian, and disfigured by the exagger-
to the piazza ; " but nothing, no matter how ' ated statues of the school of Bernini, and
grand and stately, has ever approached the j through the narrow, irregular streets, grow-
reality. Look back, and contrast the height j ing gray and gloomy in the gathering twi-
of the people with the entrance. Why, j light.

they are mere pigmies in comparison ! And
how imposing is this great square, with the
antique obelisk in the centre, that once
threw its long shadow over some temple of

Suddenly Mrs. Tremaine exclaimed, after
what seemed a long silence for her, " I am
always thinking of the wonderful voice and
wonderful face of that wonderful sins;er.

Heliopolis, and the two massive but simple ! Have you ever seen such sad eyes f and the
fountains' on each side, throwing up their j enthusiastic expression of his face while he
silvery spray to the top of the stately col- ' sang made me think of Apollo and all sorts
onnade that encloses all in a vast semicircle ! ! of musical divinities."

The statues seem like a solemn procession The sweet lips of Constance did not echo
of figures that ever march in single file upon j the words of Mrs. Tremaine, but her heart
the summit. How clearly every outline isde- | did, for she had already wondered why she
fined against the sky, as quietly and calmly j thought so much of this singer.

the gray twilight settles over all ! "

" There is something touching in the

It is very grand and magnificent, and j pathos cf his voice ; it seems filled with
all that," said Mis. Tremaine, with an tears," was the only remark she hazarded,
affected shiver; "but it strikes me with
a cold melancholy, that makes me wish
for the carriage and a turn on the Pincio
before it is quite dark. 1 desire to see
something of the beauty and fashion of

Rome as well as its antiquity."

" I was particularly struck by his noble
air and remarkable face," said Madame
Landel. "I am sure, let him be who he
may, he has a history."

" O, how brilliant, how gay, how beauti-
ful ! " exclaimed Mrs. Tremaine, as the car-

" You will see enough of the Pincio, my j riage passed through the gates, and up the

dear, before the winter is over," replied
Madame Landel, " as every day's drive ter-
minates there. It is very brilliant and gay,
I believe ; but I must say I prefer places
that the crowd of fashionables do not care
to visit."

" And I like the quieter drives also," said
Constance ; " but if Helen is so amiable as to
allow herself to be dragged about all day
to see antiquities, which she affects not to
like, we must indulge her with a little pleas-
ure at the end."

" We almost forget it is Sunday, my dear,"
gently remonstrated Madame Landel. " It
seems hardly right to drive on the Pincio."

ascent to the Pincio.

Far above them rose a succession of mar-
ble terraces, ornamented with statues, foun-
tains, flowers, and odorous f-hrubs ; the feath-
ery acacia drooped in verdant luxuriance ;
the magnolia unfolded its creamy blossoms,
and made the faint air almost sick with
their perfume ; the oleander flung down
showers of crimson leaves mixed with the
waxen petals of the orange ; the gor-
geous cactus flamed fire against the dark
ilex, while the oriental palm, the stately
stone pine, and the solemn cypress, united
to form beauty, greenness, and shade. The
massive flight of marble steps ; the -water

" O, I can assure you every one does it. falling over moss-covered rocks into the
It is quite the thing, and Mrs. Tremaine time-stained, moss-covered basins ; the
wishes it so much," interposed Mr. Car- """" fi ' 1 * ,, Q iVa v>nWWi>d -u-uVi

negie.

" I think we will for this once," said Con-
stance, with a little smile, "but I am sure
none* of us will wish to make a habit of do-
ing it, if we think it is not right."

" O, how ridiculous ! " laughed Mrs. Tre-
maine. " I hope none of us will spoil the
day's pleasure by an affectation of piety. I
have lived so long in Paris I never think
of such things. Why, Mr. Carnegie, we went
to the race at Longchamps on Sunday ! "

" O you foolish child, to expose our wick-

winding walks bordered with
hedges of roses and ivy intwincd ; the
t-moothed clipped turf the beds of tropical
flowers, flaunting in robes of every hue ; the
soft balmy air ; the golden glow of the set-
ting sun ; 'the merry chatter of children ; the
lip-lit laughter of the gay thron?, mingled
with the clear strains of the band, all
formed a ecene of enchanting beauty easier
to imagine than to describe.

"I thought," said Mr?. Tremaine, PS they
stood on the highest terrace, and looked far
below them into the Piazza del Popolo, with

edness ! " and Mr. Carnegie shook his finger its twin churches, obelisk, and marvellous

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

fountain, "I thought there could be no
other park or garden so beautiful as Hyde
Park or the Bois ; but I believe this is more
charming than either. I am sure it is more
interesting because we have the city of the
world at our feet ; and is it not strange how
near the dome of St. Peter's appears to us
now ? "

" Yes," replied Constance, " I was just
thinking of it, and speculating on the
singularity of atmospheric effects. As the
sun sinks, and darkness surrounds it, it
seems larger and higher ; and how gray and
sad and sombre the plain is below us !
One might say all the life and light had
centred here, and the great city was de-
serted, pulseless, and still."

'.' Look yonder on Monte Mario," ex-
claimed Mr. Carnegie. " Turner's pine
and all the grim cypresses are outlined
against a background of gold ; like the pic-
tures of Giotto, the middle distance is black
with shadows, and the foreground is gray
and dull where the Tiber floats across it.
How peculiar the effect is with all the light
behind ! "

" itow Claude Lorraine would have ex-
ulted in such a scene ! " said Constance,
who stood, with all her soul in her eyes,
gazing into the distance, tracing a thousand
lovely forms and tints in this divine pic-
ture, touched with the glory of the great
Master.

" Do tell us who a few of these people
are, Mr. Carnegie," interrupted Mrs. Tre-
maine. " You have been in Rome so many
seasons you ought to know every one of
any importance. Who are these elegant
girls in such magnificent toilets, leaning on
the arm of the old gentleman ? and who is
that Adonis in immaculate gloves who
walks by the side of the prettiest, whis-
pering sweet nothings in her not unwilling
ear? "

" The old gentleman is an American
banker, immensely rich, and the girls are
his daughters, who are to be sold to some
young scion of nobility. The young gentle-
man is the Prince Conti, the last of one of
the oldest and most impoverished Roman
families ; one of his palaces was sold under
the hammer of the auctioneer a year ago,
and it is said his last was recently mort-
gaged. It seems that last season Conti was
fairly caught by this lovely miss, but the
papa would not pay enough for the title,
and so the Prince holds off, hoping he will
come to better terms later.

The party they were speaking of turned
at that moment and walked toward them,
and as they met all noticed the marked
glance of admiration with which the Prince
favored Mrs. Tremaine. She blushed
slightly, and said as they passed, " He is
handsome, is he not ? and indeed he has

the air of a prince. I should have known
he belonged to the old Roman nobility if
you had not told me."

" I cannot perceive that he is different
from the other young Italians louu'jmir
about here," remarked Mr. Carne-ne, un-
easily ; at which Mrs. Tremaine laughed
maliciously, with a sly glance at Constance.

' Who are those strange-looking people
in that magnificent carriage, witli servants
in such striking livery ? " inquired Madame
Landel.

" O, that is a parvenu Roman prince with
his family ; he is as rich as Rothschild, and
has bought his title with his money. The
wife by iris side is half mad, and those two
inane, expressionless girls on the front seat
are nearly idiotic. He desires to find hus-
bands for them among the real nobility ; as
he has no sons, he will dower them well.
Is it not a strange menage 1 "

" What frights ! '' exclaimed Mrs. Tre-
maine, putting her handkerchief to her
mouth to conceal her laughter, as tliree
slim and not youthful girls, in yellow gray,
looking as much alike and as stiff as three
wax candles,' passed by in the rear of their
dragon, an old lady with spectacles, little
white tufts of hair sticking on each side of
her head, and a long, sharp nose that gave
indication of frequent and earnest libations
to the god Bacchus. She marched ahead
like a wary general, keeping a good look-
out for the enemy, in the shape of dark-
eyed, smooth-tongued young Italians.

" By George ! the ' Three Graces ' again,"
said Mr. Carnegie, as they sailed out of
sight. " For six winters these fair creatures
have been in Rome. They are victims to
respectability, English, of respectable family
and respectable fortune ; they go about with
respectability written on their prim i
and their chief mission is to discover a
want of respectability in their fellow-crea-
tures. The dragon who guarded the golden
fleece of >Etes never was more watchful
than this old horror, who always forms the
vanguard, well prepared to do battle with
any number of fortune-hunters."

" I think she gives herself unnecessary
trouble; their faces will repel what their
fortunes attract," remarked Constance, with
a quiet smile.

" Come, my dears," interrupted Madame
Landel, " it is getting late ; most of the
carriages have gone down, and we must
follow. Mr. Carnegie will defer his amus-
ingbiographies until another day."

Every eye followed the two beautiful
crirls as they walked slowly back to the
carriage, both so lovely, yet so diverse in
their beauty. Constance, in deep mounting
with pale sweet face and dark hair, was very
interesting; but Mrs. Tremaine, fair and
tall, with her white feathers drooping over

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

her luxuriant golden hair, vras certainly the
more attractive. They differed as do the
soft twilight and the rosy dawn.

As they rode slowly down the descent in
the long train of carriages, Constance con-
trasted the warm balmy air and the luxu-
riant vegetation with the wild October
winds that were sweeping down showers of
dead leaves over her beloved graves at
Helmsford. For a moment tears dimmed
her eyes, but suddenly the memory of a
thrilling voice and a pale, inspired face
started up before her and drove the other
thought from her heart.

Guido Bernardo, his services finished at
St. Feter's, walked slowly down the grand
piazza, under the colonnade, to the Porta St.
Angelo, and out ' into the country to the
quiet, dreamy chores of the Tiber. There,
with his arms folded and his head bent, lost
in profound contemplation over a combina-
tion of notes that should pioduce an ex-
quisite Ave Maria if he could only find the
words, he followed almost mechanically the
winding of the river. It was his favorite
walk after his Sunday duties in the chapel ;
but to-day he hurried that he might get
home quicker to write down the vague
sounds that were floating through his brain.
He did not pause, as usual, to glance at the
picturesque buildings on the other shore,
their windows all aflame with the glow of
sunset ; neither did he notice the different
tints and harmony in the coloring around
him, or his favorite birds that wheeled and
circled above his head with a fearlessness
that showed their instinct taught them his
nature was loving and gentle. He went on,
crossing the Ponte Molle without thinking
of the different scenes of conflicts that had
been enacted there ; of one calm, lovely
evening when the ghastly body of Maxen-
tius was hurled from its parapet, alter his
defeat by Constantino ; nor of the struggle
of the brave insurgents against the French
invaders in 1849. No, he thought of none
of these things, for his hymn to the Virgin
was floating through his brain in sweet,
sad, minor notes. He entered the Porta
del Popolo just as the carriages were rolling
out of the Pincian gate ; a face that seemed
to him of divine beauty, ay, as lovely as
the Blessed Virgin, flitted by him and
passed out of sisht. Guido went home, and !
that face mingled with the music that j
floated around him, while he wrote nnd
dreamed far into the night. And Mrs.
Tremaine laughed lightly and chatted
freely of her admiration for the Adonis, as
she termed the Piince Conti. And Con-
stance more than once started to find her-
self thinking of the voice that had sung
Ave Maria; and so more than one charac-
ter in this chapter had met her fate
without knowing it.

CHAPTER XVIII.

IL MAESTRO.

A WEEK after their arrival in Rome,
Madame Landel, Constance, and Mrs.
Tremaine were settled for the winter in a
magnificent old palace near the Pincio, and
Mr. Carnegie had found a comfortable bach-
elor apartment in the neighborhood. They
had searched everywhere, and had turned
away disgusted more than once at the dark,
dirty, ill-furnished rooms that were shown
them, when one day they were passing this
palazzo, whose gray time-worn exterior pre-
sented very little attraction until they
caught sight of a large sunny court, nicely
paved and ornamented with flowers and
shrubs in stone pots, while in the centre a
curious old fountain threw up streams of
clear cool water, that fell again into the
basin with a gentle murmur, Constance
glanced over the door and saw the usual
sign : " Appartamento mobiliato al terzo
piano"

" Come," she said, " let us go up and in-
spect this place ; it certainly looks more
inviting than anything we have seen."

They passed up a flight of broad marble
stairs, not ever-clean, ornamented with
heavy balustrades of elaborately carved
stone, and rang at a door barred and spiked
with iron, like the entrance to a prison.
An honest-locking, well-dressed woman, with
a red mark en her cheek, desired them to
enter.

They passed through a rather dreary,
cold, and stately ante-room, paved with
square blocks of marble in black and white.
Around the walls were arranged with stiff
precision antique carved chairs, dark and
grim with the stains of time. In each cor-
ner stood a piaster cast from seme ancient
well-known statue, and en the wails hung
several black, dingy copies from the old
masters. The woman opened an inner
door, and, throwing aside sorre heavy crim-
son curtains, with evident pride and self-
satisfaction displayed the interior of a charm-
ing salon, large enough to make four ordi-
nary English drawing-rooms. From lofty
windows, through curtains of crimson and
lace, streamed in the warm noonday sun,
over stands of fragrant flowers, liphting up
the colors in the rich carpet. The walls
were hung with crimson and gold, and on
the painted ceiling floated r.ymphs, cherubs,
and cupids, sporting with garlands of lilies
and roses. Heavy, comfortable furniture,
large inviting sofas, and cosey arm-chairs,
were arranged with much taste around the
ivemi. Two hcavy-cnvvt (1 coiKoYs, ^ith an-
tique marble tops covered with lric-u-brac
of all sorts, a number of rather good pic-
tures, alabaster statuettes on pretty pedes-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

tals, and some heavy silver candelabra, gave j
the room an elegant as well as a cheerful i
appearance.

" Oh ! " exclaimed Mrs. Tremaine, at the
first glance, "this will suit us exactly. Is it {
not beautiful ? "

" Wait a moment, my dear, before we de-
cide,"iuterruptcd the more practical Madame
Landel ; " we must first know if there are
sleeping-rooms, dining-rooms, and other con-
venience?."

" Sea what a charming view ! " said Con-
stance, as she looked out on the sunny
crest of the Pincio. " It' there are chambers
enough, nothing could be more delightful.
Really this xa'tjn is quite regal."

" It is the size and height and the painted
ceiling that sive it the air magnificent," ob-
served Mr. Carnegie, who was attentively
examining a piece of peculiar old china. " I
believe this is a vase of senuine Capo di
Monti. Is it not beautiful, Mrs. Tremaine ? "

"No, really I cannot say I think it is,"
replied Mrs. Tremaine, laughing. " These
chubby red cherubs blowing soap-bubbles,
and the dirty yellow background, are not
particularly pleasing."

Mr. Carnegie said nothing, but pot it down
with a sigh at her bad taste, and went on
inspecting what he fondly believed to be a
collection of Buen Retiro, Vienna, Dresden,
and I know not what else, while the ladies
examined bedroom?, which they found to be
the exact number wanted ; looked over linen,
china, and silver ; bargained for service, rent,
fuel, food, and all the other necessaries of
life, which were finally agreed upon satis-
factorily, and they turned to leave, de-
lighted with such an agreeable acquisition.

As they were going out, Mr. Carnegie
asked the waixian how she had come in pos-
se; sion of all these curious old things.

" O Sir] nor mlo" she said, with a sigh,
" it is a long story to tell, how we got the
money, my Benedetto and me. But when
we wanted to take the apartment we found
it just as it is now. An old contessa had
died, and left nothing but this furniture.
Poveru contcssv, she was entirely ruined by
her nephew, who was a cattivo ragazzo.
After his aunt died ha wished to leave
Rome and go to Paris ; so, as we had the
ready money to pay, he leL us have it all for
very little. Once the whole palace belonged
to his family, but long ago it was sold to
pay his debts, and all the furniture and pic-
tures of all the rooms, except this suite, which
the poor contcssa kept for herself. We
were fortunate to get it, for it is a favorite
apartment with all the foresticri, and we
always let it early in the season. But my
poor Benedetto and me, we have had trou-
ble enough, so it is time now to be blessed
with fome good luck." And she sighed
heavily as ehe opened the door. " A rive-

dere. I hope to make you very comfort-
able to-morrow."

The next day, when they s:t down to
dinner in their well-arranged dining-room,
with antique sideboard, straijil carved
chairs, curious old silver and china, and
the huge brass scnldino^ filled with coals to
take the chill off the air, which alter
was uamp, Mrs. Tremaine declared she was
perfectly happy, and that living in a palace,
and being surrounded by what had belonged
to a countess, made her fancy herself an an-
cient Roman lady in her paternal palace,
attended by all the pomp and magnificence
of the moyen age. ffc

Constance said little ; she was quiet and
serious, as she always was at even ch m^e
they made, for she thought much of her lost
home. It was not easy for her to lay aside
the old life, with its regular English routine
so formal and strict, and adapt herself at
once to the new, with the freedom and
Bohemianism incidental to Continental wan-
dering. However, the change in all was
not unpleasant, and they congratulated
themselves more than once that they were
so agreeably settled for the win

"So near my dear Pinci<>." .- i 1 Helen;
" and such a nice large salon ! We can give
little receptions and tea-parties. And we
must find out and cultivate all the desirable
people, all the lions, musical, artistic, and
literary. With dear Madame and Mr. Car-
negie for onr chaperons we can go every-
where and do everything."

' You forget," said Constance, sndly glan-
cing at her mourning dress, "I cannot <; > in-
to society this winter."

" O, I can assure you it is quite the thing
on the Continent to go to small :
concerts, and such innocent atnusenic
one is in mourning. Of cour-c. <:;>.-r.is and
balls are quite another thing."

" But I have not the desire," replied Con-
stance, with tearful eye-; ; ' YOU mu
member how much I have, raftered recently.
You can always go with Madame Lndel.and
I will stay at home quietly and study music
and archaeology."

" We won't talk of that now, my dears,"
said Madame Landel, gently ; " we will take
everything as it comes, and dispose of it as
we think best. In our own home w>
always surround ourselves with d - :
society, and yet not be very gay or ia?hion-
able."

" But I do want to be gay ! " <: ie 1 Mrs.
Tremaine. " I want to see all the f.i^lii' >
society of Rome. I want to go to lulls, to
the opera, to the hunt, and all that, and.
when it is finished, for Lent I will be a
ons as you please."

Mr. Carnegie entered at that moment, and
Mrs. Tremaine appealed to him.

" Is it not too bad 1 Ma daine and Con-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

stance are going to shut themselves up all
winter, so I cannot go into society ! "

"That will be a great loss to society,"
replied Mr. Carnegie ; " but don't make
yourself unhappy on that account. I see
you are determined to break the hearts of
a score of these dark-eyed princes and
count's, and you shall have a fair chance.
If the ladies are determined to remain in
seclusion, I shall find some friend to chape-
rone you ; and you shall not waste your
sweetness on the desert air."

He sighed and laughed together at her
rapturous thanks, wishing in his heart that
she was not so beautiful. " What chance is
there for me ? " he thought. " She will be
sought after, surrounded, and flattered ; her
grace, youth, elegance, and wit will make
her the adored of one sex, while she will be
the victim of the other. The world will be
hard on her. She is so independent, free,
and frank, they will mistake it for lightness,
and while they flatter her to her face, they
will slander and wound her when she has
turned away." He felt a stern sort of pleas-
ure in knowing that he should always be
near her to teach her by his devotion the
difference between his love and the hypoc-
risy of the world. " After they have de-
ceived and disgusted her by their falsehood
and insincerity, perhaps she will turn to me.
I can wait. Yes, I love her truly and deeply,
and I can wait." Such were his thoughts as
he watched her, with earnest love in every
glance, flitting here and there about the
great dimly lighted room, her fair hair,
lovely face, graceful figure, and pale blue
dress making of her a model lor a me-
diaeval saint.

She insisted that Constance should sing
while she tried the piano, which had been
brought in during the day ; and as she sat
running her fingers lightly over the keys,
her face upturned to her friend, who was
leaning on her shoulder, he thought a more
lovely inspiration for an artist could not be
desired.

Madame Landel and he sipped their tea
by the bright wood fire while the girls sang ;
and Guido Bernardo, alone in his dull room,
smiled as he tore open and read a note
which he found on his table.

When Mr. Carnegie wished them good
nrght, Constance exclaimed, "Did you in-
quire to-day about a master for me ? "

" Yes, indeed I did. Have you ever known
me to forget a commission ? I have found
the best master in Rome, and despatched a
note to him desiring him to call on you to-
morrow at eleven. I hope you will like
him."

" Is he young or old, handsome or ugly ? "
demanded Mrs. Tremaine.

" I am sorry, but I cannot inform you on
that point. As I did not suppose his looks or

age were of importance, I made inquiries
only respecting his merits as a teacher, and
I have been told that he is the first master in
Rome."

" O, if he should prove to be that angelic
singer of St. Peter's, I too should become a
student at once," lightly rejoined Mrs.
Tremaine.

And Constance, long after she had laid
her head on her pillow, thought, " What if
he should be that angelic singer of St.
Peter's ? "

The next morning she was awakened by
some one singing near her. She listened
half in a doubt whether it were a dream or
a reality; but she was fully awake, the sun
shone into her room, and die could hear the
murmur of the fountain in the court below.
Yes, some one was singing to the accom-
paniment of a piano, and she thought she
had heard the voice before, a voice most
rich, clear, and triumphant. Sometimes it
would fall into a low, plaintive strain, and
then break forth joyously, as though happy
birds were let loose from the heart of the
singer. Almost breathless, she followed the
voice through all the intricacies of sound,
thinking always in her heart, " It must be ;
there can be no other voice like his." She
arose, threw on her dressing-gown, and
opened the window. The fresh morning
breeze, the odor of flowers, and the warm
sunshine greeted her lovingly. Almost op-
posite, on the other side of the court, was
an open window, and from that floated the
voice that was like the sound of angels
singing in paradise.

A strange feeling of exaltation filled her
heart. She raised her eyes to the blue
sky, to the waving trees, on the face of the
hills, to the long stretch of mountains
bathed in golden mist, and she murmured,
" O my God, I thank thee, because the
world is so beautiful. Darkness has endured
for the night, and now with the morning
cometh light and joy." With that song
there entered into her heart a new peace,
strange and sweet. What it was she knew
not, but the shadows that had hung over
her so long seemed to have arisen, floated
away, and disappeared in the clear blue of
the distant heavens.

On the impulse of her new happiness she
wrote a long letter to Lady Dinsmore, tell-
ing her of her changed feelings, her new
ho'me, and her first impressiors of the Eter-
nal City. Just as she was closing it a
servant knocked at the door, and told
her some one was waiting for her in the
salon.

She glanced in the mirror, smoothing a
little the waves of her hair, and arranging
the cord that confined her black cashmere
morning-dress, and then entered the salon.

A tall graceful figure in the robes of a

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

priest, stood with his back to the door look-
ing at a picture over the piano. He did not
see her until she was by his side and spoke.
Then he turned, and she saw before her the
noble face, the dark melancholy eyes, and
the gentle smile of Guido Bernardo, the
ginger of St. Peter's. A faint flush passed
over his face, but he bowed calmly, and, she
thought, a little proudly, and then waited
for her to speak.

There was a strange agitation in her
heart that she could not control as she
desired him to be seated, and began to
speak in regard to her studies. His grave,
refined manner, the intelligence and simple
sincerity of his remarks, placed her at once
at her ease, and convinced her that she was
talking to a person of no ordinary charac-
ter and talent, and to one in no way inferior
to herself.

After a little conversation, he desired her
to sing, that he might judge of her style.
When she had finished he did not flatter
her in the least, but told her simply that her
voice was very flexible and sweet, yet she
had fallen into some serious faults of execu-
tion which she must correct at once. There
was a force and gravity in his words that
impressed her with a belief in his superior
genius ; and although he was young, his face
and manner inspired her with a sort of
reverence. And she felt from that moment
that the least wish expressed by his lips
would be law to one who loved him.

He still sat at the piano, and often, in ex-
planation of some remark, he sang a few
notes. Then she recognized the voice she
had heard in the morning. She was much
puzzled by this coincidence, but dared not
ask for an explanation.

After naming an hour for her lessons, he
said, " I hope my practising at so early an
hour in the morning does not disturb you."

" Why," inquired Constance, " do you
live near ? and was it you I heard singing
this morning ? "

" Yes," he replied, with a quiet smile, "I
live very near, in fact, in the same house,
on the other side of the court. This old
palace has been my home for five years."

As he was leaving the room Mrs. Tre-
maine entered. She could scarcely conceal
her astonishment until Guido had closed
the door, then she broke forth :

" What a romance in real life ! He is the
singer at St. Peter's. I believe Mr. Carnegie
knew it all the time, and only wished to
surprise us. And he is even handsomer
near than at a distance, and there is some-
thing so aristocratic and high-bred in his
air. I am sure he is some ruined noble who
is not too proud to earn his living honestly."

" He lives very near us," said Constance,
with a slight blush, " in the other part of
this house, across the court."

" In this very house ! well, that <s strange.
You are fortunate, because your room is on
the court, where you can always hear him
sin<r. Now see how I am ptmi.-hed for my
selfishness in taking the best room because
it was on the street."

Constance laughed, and replied that she
had always preferred the court, tor the rea-
son that it was more quiet than the street.

" Any way it is delightful," continued
Helen, " because we shall see him often. I
think," with a sly glance at Constance,
" you will find music a delightful study with
such an interesting master."

That evening while Filomena gave Guido
his supper she talked incessantly of the two
lovely girls. " The dark one is so sweet
and gentle, and the fair one is so gay ?he
is like a dancing sunbeam. But which dost
thou think the fairest, maestro mi<> ! "

Guido's eyes grew softer, and his smile
more tender, as he replied, " The dark
one."

CHAPTER XIX.

MRS. TREMAINE AND THE PRINCE COXTI.

RS. TREMAINE had been to a recep-
tion at the French Ambassador's with
Lady Charlotte Lennox, a friend of Mr.
Carnegie. Constance sat up to wait for
her, and when she came she was not at all
tired, never had looked more bewitc-hingly
lovely, and was perfectly wild with the ex-
citement and triumph of the evening. The
Prince Conti had been presented to her by
the Ambassador, and he had danced with
her twice, and paid her such marked atten-
tion that the American heiress had turned
green with jealousy, and the old banker
had immediately decided to add another
hundred thousand to the proposed marriage
settlements.

Indeed, as Constance afterward learned
from Mr. Carnegie, Helen was the belle of
the evening, and had attracted quite enough
attention to turn a steadier head than hers.
After he had recounted her triumphs with a
sad face and nervous, uneasy manner, he
added, as though to console hinwlf, that he
had just discovered a rare old collection of
nHtjv/ica, which he hoped to get possession
of at a reasonable price.

The more Mrs. Tremaine danced and
flirted and laughed, the more Mr. Carnojie
poked into dusty, musty, old lir'n--ti-l>ra,:
shops, and explored out-of-the-way places
from the Ghetto to the Babuino, in hopes
to discover something unit/lie to console him
for the treasure lie could not have. He
began three different novels, and got as
far as the third chapter: but all his char-
acters had fair hair and large blue eyes,

WOVKX OF MANY THREADS.

' 'T i.- licttcr to hnvo loved and lost
Thau never to luivo loved at all.''

and \voro, in fact, pen-portraits of sweet of the dead heart, " "Woe to that being on
! Tremaiii.'. Ho tried to paint; but whom this knowledge dawns too late I
i-k Roman models all | Woe for the hunger and thirst of the soul
:he same features, and, in spite of him- ; that has once feasted at the heavenly ban-
Mack hair became gold, the dusky | quet, for nothing after can satisfy its long-
In-ow white as a tender rose-leaf, the ing ! " Is it better never to have drunk from
line of the rfimji'if/iia a delicate the cup of Ganymede because we must
with long, graceful folds, and he thirst again ? Is it better never to have
him a faint outline of one of Fra had a glimpse of the rose-gardens of Eden
:icd's saints. It was of no use; the because the gates are closed to us forever ?
stream of his life was changed, and he could I believe
not make it flow back into its old channel.
All that remained for him was to watch his

,'.nd wait. But Constance did not know she loved this

And a new life had opened before Con- young singer. She did not pause to ana-
stance, a soft, sunny, verdant vista, down lyze her feelings. She only knew she was
which she looked with glad eyes and smiling : happy, happier than she had ever been in
lips. Her feet lingered lightly in the rose- her life. Was it the blue sky, the balmy
etrewn way, and she inhaled new odors j air, of Italy, the thousand beautiful things
that were not of earth. The trees were of | in nature and art that surrounded her ?
a more tender green, and the boughs were She did not know, she did not inquire ;
filled with singing birds. There was music j she only felt the lightness, the buoyancy, of
everywhere; there was music in her heart, a heart at rest.

and the f oft air around her breathed music. Her musical studies were to her a source
She awoke to its sound, and she slept with I of never-ending delight. She practised
that voice reverberating in her ears. For | indefatigably, following every gentle hint
all the chambers of her heart were filled of her master, striving only for his approval,
with a delicious melody. It was the birth and quite contented if she saw that he was

of that experience which comes to us but
once.

Let philosophers and sages say that love
is a myth, or that the human heart is capable
of more than one grande passion, and I affirm
and maintain, on the evidence of every
living FOU! that has loved, the reality of
lovgfcaml the utter impossibility of loving
more than once. All that has preceded,
all that may come after, is but friendship ;
or, call it what you may, it is not the flame
kindled by the divine spark that God has

pleased with her efforts. Scarcely a day or
an evening passed without her seeing him.
Indeed, he had become at once a iavorite
Avith all. His noble face, his gentle, high-bred
manners, the charm of his talent, and his
pure simple nature, left their impression on
all whom he encountered. Madame Landel
loved him very soon with a motherly sort of
affection ; and even Mr. Carnegie, proud
Englishman though he was, with all an Eng-
lishman's prejudices against Italians, found
nothing to condemn in Guido. Mrs. Tre-

our souls.

A vear before Constance believed

given to us as a sign of the immortality of I maine petted him much as one would a

younger brother, demanded all sorts of little
she services of him, praised, scolded, or coun-
had loved, but she had only felt that cold sclled him, as she felt in the humor. It was
affection which so many poor mistaken evident Guido liked her, and admired her,
creatures consider the heaven-born passion, but with the same admiration one bestows
She might have married Richard Vandeleur ' on a lovely picture. Between him and Con-
and gone through life happy and contented,
because in all probability she never would

ve met the one being created to explain
to her this mystery of love. She would
have been comparatively happy, because she
never would have missed what she had
never known. But there would have been
no strains of divine melody ringing like
il bells to blend and harmonize the
discords of lift- ; no pinning birds in all the
green shade ; no an<rel faces in the blue
ether. No breath of paradise would have
blown across her path, to stir the inmost
depths of her soul with an ecstatic thrill,
Fiich as the free spirit feels when some
'1 morning it beholds the gl

tor its admission. Neither
can I say, with the cold, keen philosophy

stance there was that grave but sweet re-
serve that marks the first stage of the tender
passion. They did not converse much with
each other, there were no light words of
jesting banter between them ; but often
their eyes met for an instant, and in that
instant how many revelations were made,
how many secrets were betrayed that
neither had acknowledged to themselves !
They often sang together, the pure, fresh
voice of Constance mingling and harmoniz-
ing with the glorious tones of her master,
sometimes in impassioned romances, but
more frequently in the grand and solemn
music of the Church. Guido had at last
found one who thoroughly understood and
sympathized with him in his love for his
divine art; and this drew their souls nearer

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

together, and formed between them a per-
fect bond of union.

Often in the quiet of his own room, in-
stead of writing late into the night, as had
been his custom, Guido would sit with his
arms folded, lost in de?p thought. Some-
times his eyes would lose their sadness, and
bea.u with the light of joy ; a smile of ten-
derness would tremble on his lips, and he
would seem transfigured for a moment by the
power of this new experience. Then sudden-
ly the light would fade away and gloom over-
spread his face ; tears would dim his eyes,
and he would murmur, with pale, compressed
lips, " No, no, it is madness ; J must not
dream of that joy, it is not for such as I ! "

Mrs. Tremaine was very gay and happy.
Scarcely an evening passed that she was
not the chief attraction of some fashionable
circle. Lady Charlotte Lennox, who was
always ready to chaperon a lovely young
lady, found herself in demand; for Helen
did not hesitate to make her friends useful,
exacting all sorts of attention with a good-
natured selfishness none could resist. Then
Mr. Carnegie and Lady Charlotte were fast
friends, and they went everywhere together,
guarding between them the treasure, one
with pride, the other with love.

There was no one so popular that season
as Helen. All the young Italian nobles
coveted her slightest smile, would have fall-
en at her feet and worshipped her, would
have died to gratify her lightest caprice,
or, at least, so they said in their anonymous
billets and impassioned serenades ; but she
treated all with the same saucy scorn anrl in-
difference, except the Prince Conti. There
were times, when he approached her, that
she would have given worlds for the power
to subdue the fluttering of her heart and
control her rising color. All her other
young adorers called her cold, heartless,
beautiful, superb, but only a marble.statue.
The Prince Conti had seen the warm (lush
dye her lovely cheek, and felt the little
hand tremble in his, and he knew he was
the Pygmalion that was to inspire this love-
ly creation with the life of pa?sion. It was
evident he loved' her. He hung upon her
steps like a ' shadow . and % Heien, how
could she resist him 1 Was he not a prince,
and the Apollo of princes ?

It was Helen's birthday ; and there came
among the dozens of bouquets one of rare
flowers, and in the centre of a lily was fas-
tened a small hoop of diamonds, on the in-
side of which was engraved the word *' X/.r-
ranza" She turned very pale, and placed
it without a word upon her finger ; and
long after, when those lovely hands were
folded for their eternal rest, that ring still
sparkled where she had placed it. Through
the day all her young friends came "!tli
flowers and gifts to wish her buonafestu, aud

among them the Prince Conti. Constance
stood near Helen when he took her hand,
and she thought she detected an expression
of triumph when his eye tell upon the ring.
He was as sure then, as in all that ]
after, that she loved him. From that day
he became a frequent visitor, and begged to
be allowed to join them in their excursions
and rides. He found the safest and fastest
horses, and showed them the most delight-
ful roads in the campagna, and he knew
where were the most interesting ruins, and
all the traditions and histories of them.
Constance, Helen, Mr. Carnegie, and the
Prince rode together, while often Lady
Charlotte, Madame Landcl, and Guido
would accompany them in the carriage.
These were delightful days to all the party,
except poor Mr. Carnegie, who always rode
with Constance, pale and silent, now and
then casting furtive, wistful glances at Mrs.
Tremaine, whose light, clear laugh was borne
back to them by the breeze as she cantered
joyously by the side of the Prince.

One morning they all set off, full of life
and spirits, to visit the fountain of Egeria.
When they reached the old ruined temple;
at the termination of the carriage-drive
they dismounted, and, after lunching mer-
rily under the shade of the Sacred Forest,
started to walk across the valley of the
Almo to the spot where tradition says that
Numa held intercourse with his favorite
nymph.

The morning had been delightful ; but
now, about midday, suddenly the sun
clouded over, and a strange, hissing sound
seemed to run along the earth, and the old
trees behind waved their weird branches
with a portentous solemnity. Mr. Car-
negie glanced up at the darkening sky, and
said, " We must hurry ; there will be a
heavy shower soon."

" I think not very soon," observed the
Prince, who had just offered his arm to Mrs.
Tremaine. " If \ve-walk fast we shall have
;ime to reach the fountain and return " ;
and off they started at a brisk rate, far in
advance of the others.

Constance and Guido were walking to-
gether, while Mr. Carnegie was behind with
the other ladies. She glanced at her com-
panion more than once. He seemed sad
and abstracted ; his arms were folded, his
long, black mantle floated behind him in
the wind ; his head was bare, for he carried
his hat in his hand, saying he liked the cool
air on his forehead. There was an expres-
sion on his face that she had never before
seen, a weary, troubled look, as of one
who had waged a hard battle with self, and
had been vanquished when he had most de-
sired the victory.

" You are very sad and silent to-day," she
said, after a few indifferent remarks ; " this

AYOYKX OF MANY THREADS.

scene of desolation and ruin depresses

voo."

" O no," he replied, with an eloquent

glance, " I am not sad, I am too happy. I

am alwav* silent when I am most happy.

Neither do 1 find it dreary li.re; there is a

charm in this :-pot difficult to describe, and

iy ;-ky and ri>ing wind are in

fog \\ith the scene. See yonder shep-

ralliiiu: his flock U-gcther, to seek

a re tup 1 from the threatening heavens. How

plaintive is the sound of his pipe ! it is like

a wail that foretells the coining tempest.

And I fear it will be upon us before we can

reach a shelter."

She glanced back. Mr. Carnegie and the
ladies had turned and were hastening to the
Sacred Forest. Helen and the Prince were
far ahead, utterly oblivious, in each other's
society, of the storm about to break upon
them.

" Let us remain here for a moment," said
Guido. as they reached the foot of the hill
on which stand th ruins of the temple of
Bacchus. " Here in this shallow cave is a
little shelter."

Even as he spoke the gust swept by them,
and the great drops fell with a heavy patter
on the dried earth at their feet. For a few
moments the wind was fearful, and the
place offered little protection against the
fury of the elements. Guido glanced into
the pale face at his side, and he saw her
turn paler and tremble as a vivid flash of
lightning shot by them, followed by a deaf-
ening crash of thunder. With a sudden im-
pulse of tenderness he threw his mantle
around her and drew her close to hi? heart.
A moment of silent rapture, a moment of
more than bliss, in which their souls knew
<-:irh other and rushed together; though no
word was spoken, though no vow passed
their lips, yet the great secret that each
had hidden from the other was revealed in
all its strength and fervor. They loved
each other, and henceforth their fouls could
never be separated, even though their
bodies were parted forever ; through all
time, through all eternity, the immortal part
would remain one.

This revelation burst with startling power
upon the mind of Constance, as she rested
for one moment against the heart that beat
?o tumultuously for her. Then, deadly pale,
(ho disengaged herself from his embrace
and turned away coldly and haughtily, say-
ing, in a constrained voice, "The strength
t the storm is passed, let us go on."

For a moment Guido looked at her like
one stupefied ; then a scornful, bitter ex-
pression passed over his face, but he said,
gently and calmly, " Pardon me, Siynorina,
1 meant but to shelter you from the storm.
Yes, let us go on ; the worst is over."

The rain still fell heavily, but after a few

moments of hurried walking, during which
neither spoke, they reached the grotto where
Helen and the Prince had already arrived,
wet and tempest-tossed, it is true, but chat-
ting and laughing as merrily as ever.

" Here we will remain until the shower is
entirely over," said Guido, as he folded his
mantle and laid it on a wet stone to form a
seat for Constance. " You are pale and
tired from your rapid walk ; sit here, and
I will bring you some water to refresh
you."

He gave her a cool draught in a little
silver cup Mrs. Tremaine had brought to
drink from ; then he stood looking at her
with a sad, dreary expression of mingled
pain and disappointment. It told more
than words could how deeply she had
wounded him.

As she gave him back the cup, her eyes
lilled with tears, -and she said softly, laying
her hand upon his for a moment, " Forget
what has passed ; I, too, will forget it. Now
tell me about this mysterious place."

The Prince was twining graceful maiden's-
hair and ivy into a wreath for Helen, who
had laid aside her hat and was arranging
her dishevelled gold, which the wind had
torn from its fastenings.

" I can believe this to have been the abode
of all the nymphs since the Creation," she
said. " It seems to be the very spot for the
dwelling-place of the light-footed creatures.
How lovely it must have been when the green
moss of the spring was sprinkled with am-
brosial drops that fell from the damp tresses
of Egeria ! and how strange to think that
this same fountain sparkles and bubbles
and runs over the margin into the basin
among the maiden's-hair fern and wild ivy
as it did in the irreclaimable days when
gods and goddesses descended to hold inter-
course with mortals ! But then," she said,
with an arch smile, " men were half gods,
and all women were nymphs."

"And now," replied the Prince, with an
ardent glance of admiration, " all men are
mortal ; and all women are angels, and much
lovelier than these beings of an ideal cre-
ation."

" One might fancy," said Guido, pointing
to the mutilated recumbent statue, " that
pome presuming mortal had dared to pene-
trate into the enchanted shade, and an
indignant goddess had transformed him into
this dumb marble."

" Very poetical, Signer Guido, but more
poetical than real, as in all probability this
romantic spot was nothing more than a liath
where the lusty contadini came to lave
th;:ir tired limbs after their day's toil in the
neighboring fields."

" O," cried Constance, " how can you de-
stroy our cherished illusions by such a
commonplace explanation ! The beauty and

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

seclusion of the spot make me desire to be-
lieve in the truth of the tradition."

" Pardon me," he said, " but would you
teach me that fiction is better than truth ?
But see, the rain is over, and the wind
has gone to rest like a tired child. Let us
get to the horses before there is another
shower."

Guido walked by the side of Constance,
silent and grave, and she was too much ab-
sorbed in her own thoughts to make any
effort to converse. The wind had fallen to
rest, as the Prince said, like a tired child
that had raged and moaned until its
strength was spent, and now all was calm
and still. That silence, almost stupor, had
succeeded which is so suggestive of ex-
hausted, worn-out passions.

They found the ladies sitting in the car-
riage, and Mr. Carnegie pacing back and
forth with bowed head and moody face.

" Are you wet ? " he inquired anxiously,
f.s Mrs. Tremaine approached.

" A little," she replied, smiling, " but a
sharp canter will set us all right " ; and,
scarcely touching the proffered hand of the
Prince, she sprang into the saddle.

That evening Helen did not go out, and
the Prince came, as he usually did when
she was at home. They sat apart from the
others, talking in low tones, while they
turned over a book of drawings. Mr. Car-
negie and Madame Landel sipped their tea
in silence by the fire, and Constance and
Guido were at the piano. In spite of the
episode of the morning they both seemed
happy, and Guido's face had recovered its
usual serene expression. They sang, yet
did not select the impassioned romances of
Italy, but rather the noble compositions of
Mozart and Beethoven, and parts of Cheru-
bim's Slabat Mater, and the tender, exquisite
Ave Maria of Cerissimi.

That night, after Constance went to her
room, she walked the floor for long hours,
searching into the depths of her heart with
troubled earnestness, trying to decipher
what was written there. One by one the
words came out cl(r and distinct, and stood
before her in letters of fire, and grew, and
increased, and repeated themselves, but al-
ways in the same form, "1 love him, I love
him."

And Guido, on his knees before the pic-
ture of the Madonna, his long black robes
falling around him, with pale uplifted face
and extended hands, looked like some suf-
fering saint, imploring mercy from the
Mother of God.

" Oh ! " he moaned, " T love her, I love her,
and I muse tear her from my heart. She
does not know what I am, she does not know
the barrier of disgrace that separates us.
Yes, I love her, but I must forget her or

CHAPTER XX.

A USELESS QUEST.

IX a small, neatly furnished apartment on
the Lung' Arno, in Florence, sat a
gentleman deeply engaged ill writing. It
was Richard Vandeleur, but how changed
from the Richard Vandeleur of Ilchnsibrd !
His face was ihin, almost haggard ; his mouth
had those downward curves of melancholy
depression which tell so plainly of the deep
thought and suffering that have marked a
life ; his eyes were sad but gentle, and his
brow lined and contracted ; his hair was
thinner, and mixed around the temples with
gray ; his face was brown from exposure to
the sun of Eastern deserts, and the lower
part was entirely covered by a long grizzled
beard. His whole dress betokened a care-
lessness of the world's opinion, an utter in-
difference to appearance ; and yet he looked
a gentleman in spite of all, but so weary and
worn, so old and changed, that Constance,
had she seen him, would scarcely have rec-
ognized him as the elegant man of fashion
she had known a year and a half 1>
It is true he had lost some of his former
almost effeminate refinement, but he had
gained much in its stead. There, was a
certain earnestness and resolution in his
expression that told he was no longer an
idler, but a constant, unwearied actor in the
great drama of life. A few months !>
he h:ul returned from the East, where he
had sought in vain for happiness and \'~
fulness. lie had returned to the ciii
Europe, to the same men, to the same
places, to the same things he had left, still
oppressed with the same hungering heart,
the same unpeaceable soul, ever pursued
by the thought of his lost ye.irs and the
remorse that had so blighted his lite. In
almost every hour, in everv place, the words
of Constance still sounded in his ears :
" Seek her throughout the world, and, if she
still lives, make her what reparation is in
your power." lie had sought her, and. the
more he sought, the more the memory of
those days of wild sweet joy, when she had
been all to him, entered and took possession
of his heart; and the, more lie thought of
her innocence and purity, lie.- gentle nature,
the more difficult he found it to believe that
she had indeed sinin'd so deeply. Time
and suffering had softened his heart, and
taught him to be more merciful. There
were hours when a suspicion, too horrible to
be endured, would (lash across his mind,
what if that man whom lie had trusted had
deceived him and the poor child he left in
his charge '.' I will seek tor him." In- would
cry, in a paroxysm of rage, " I will find
him and wring the truth from him, or I will
shed his heart's blood." Then often to these

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

storms of passion would succeed a gloomy
reaction, when he would reason coolly to
hiiiiM-lf in this wise: "Jf she had loved me
aiyl l.ecn true to me, nothing could have
turn her 1'rom me. It' she. had been deceived
and decoyed from the home where I left
her, she knew my name, she could have
found me. In all these years, if she were
innocent and living, I should have heard
from her. O, if I could but find her, and
know 1 had been deceived, and she was the
same sweet child I worshipped in those
golden days of youth and love, life might
still be something to me, I might yet be
happy ! "

This evening, as he sat alone in his room
steadily writing, he was striving, as he al-
ways was now, to find distraction in labor,
never in pleasure. For several weeks he
had been wandering along the Adriatic
coast, stopping in every small town and
hamlet, searching by every means possible
for some information concerning his earnest
quest. He had visited again the scene of
those happy hours ; he had sat in the little
garden, under the same orange-trees where,
ten years before, the golden summer days
had gone on like an idyl of Arcadia. And
such a summer he had never known since,
because he never again had the fame fresh
heart, the same faith and trust ; and now,
looking back through the dark and tangled
vista of all the years, he could truly say,
" Those were the blessed days of my life ! "
The cottage was empty' and closed, but he
readily gained permission, to enter ; the ser-
vant who had been in his employ was dead
or gone, hone knew which. He could learn
nothing there ; but still he wished to see
once more the place so filled with sweet
associations, the little rooms where they
had lived, day after day, in the closest of all
the relations of life. He threw himself on
his knees before the window where they
had sat hour after hour; where she had
stood so often by his side, her arm around
his neck, her soft cheek resting on his hair,
while he read or wrote ; where she had knelt
before him. gazing into his face with adoring
eyes, calling him her angel, her saint, and
every sweet endearing diminutive her lovely
language possessees. There was the little
niche in the wall, with the ill-painted Ma-
donna, where she had insisted upon having
a desk, with a candle and prayer-book, and
a crucifix over it, before which she knelt
night and morning in her loose white robes,
her small brown hands clasped, her soft eyes
uplifted to the image of the suffering
Saviour, pleading for; forgiveness, she who
had never then sinned.

O, how the remembrance of those scenes
lacerated and tore the heart of the weary
suffering man ! for he had been the cause of
the ruin of that angel of purity ; he had left

her unprotected to the snares of a villain.
Where was she now ? perhaps, cast of! and
forsaken, she had sunk lower and lower, un-
til neither earth nor heaven had any refuge
for her, and the fair face and glorious eyes
might have been hidden for years in the
darkness and dreariness of an unknown
grave. Covering his face with his hands,
he wept long and bitterly ; then he arose
and went away, like one who had taken
the last look of an idolized being before the
coffin-lid closed upon it forever. Again he
walked on the mournful shores where, years
before, in the first, fury of his disappointed
love, he had poured out his impotent rage
and scorn to the unheeding sea. Now with
a profound sadness he watched the continual
succession of waves, that broke one after
another on the smooth sand with a fain-t
murmuring plaint like the moajis of invisible
sorrows. " Why do you complain and mur-
mur forever," he thought, "you who have
the strength that nothing can resist ? Even
we who are human have no power against
you. How like life ! how like fate ! We
struggle madly, blindly, against our desti-
sies, and yet the waves roll on and on, and
we cannot stay them in their course, neither
can we resist them."

O human hearts ! groping like wounded
worms in the dust, with a blind instinct of
pain^ why in your maimed and helpless as-
pirations do ye not look to the great Healer?
His balm of Gilead, his balsam of life,
would be so freely poured on your bleeding
wounds.

Kichard Vandeleur had not yet that faith
in the unlimited power, in the unchangeable
justice and goodness, of the Father who
pities us in our weakness and folly, that
faith which leads us to higher and nobler
ends.' that faith without which our lives
are but the most deplorable of all decep-
tions ; still he was blindly groping in the
darkness, with his hands before his face, to-
ward the great light, which, if it once
beams upon our souls, drives away forever
the shadows of doubt and despair.

Many and varied weie,the thoughts that
passed through his mind in quick succes-
sion, as he stood looking out on the sea,
over which hung a dull gray sky. Earth
and heaven seemed veiled alike in a cold
neutral tint, and always distinct from the
confusion of thought sounded those words,
" Reparation, reparation " The waves that
broke at his feet seemed to demand it ; the
wind that waved the boughs of a dreary
willow and moaned among the branches of
a pine against which he leaned, the sea-
birds with slow circles and plaintive cries,
took up the refrain and repeated it over and
over. The memory of a pair of dark tender
eyes dimmed with tears, a face glorious
with youth and beauty, quivering lips, and

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

clinging .hands was eloquent with the same
prayer.

Then a solemn phantom seemed to pass
before him, with hollow eyes, in which the
fires of life and passion were forever ex-
tinguished, a face white and worn, lips
on which no smile rested, mournful folded
hands over an immobile breast, a ghastly
contrast to that incarnation of warm, fresh,
living loveliness he had known. And that
phantom seemed to cry louder and more
imperatively than all the voices of nature,
" Reparation ! reparation ! "

" O my Go;l ! " he cried, " I have striven,
and I will still strive. I will give myself
neither peace nor rest until I know some-
tiling of her fate."

And so he had gone on through every
city and town of Italy, often discouraged,
often hopeless, but still ever seeking, even
when he felt ic was a useless quest.

He had returned to Florence after this
weary search, worn out in body and mind,
yet resolved to leave immediately for Paris,
hoping there to find some clew to the where-
abouts of De Villiers. That seemed to be
the only resource left, and he determined
to ac* upon it at once.

But at that time a malignant fever had
been raging among the poor, in a squalid,
dirty part of the city, where few foreigners
dared penetrate. '-Here," he thought, "is
something for me to do, by which I may
make some atonement foithe past." And so
for several weeks, instead of starting on his
intended journey, he had been going the
rounds of the infected district, a very angel
of mercy. He had freely given food and
money, and procured the best medical ad-
vice. He had watched day after day and
night after night by the bed of the dying,
giving them the cooling draught, moistening
the parched lips, and often closing with his
own hands the eyes that had ceased to
weep. In all the abodes of misery the pale
solemn face, the sad but kind eyes, the
gentle voice, were known and welcomed.
But now the crisis of the epidemic had
passed, already there was a change for the
better, and again he decided to leave. This
evening, after writing for some time, he
started up su 1 lenly and laid down his pen,
as though some iie\v resolution had taken
possession of him.

" Have I been insane that I have never
thought of this before ? Yes, I will go at
once to Rome, I will seek for her father and
mother ; she may have returned to them,
what is more likely ? or at least, if she has
not returned, they may know something of
her fate. Yes, I will leave in the morning.
Now I must go to see my sick ; I must know
they arc provided for during my absence."

He took a basket from a cloget, filled
with wine and fruit, and, opening his desk,

drew from a roll a number of small bills

in paper; these he put into his pocket-book,
and, taking his basket and cane, started
on his errand of mercv. Le-iving behind
him the broad, brilliantly light i-,l Lim^'
Arno, he crossed the Ponte Yeeehin. and
entered the dark, dreary suburbs. Passing
through a narrow, dirty street, he saw a
wounded dog lying on the pavement, howling
piteously. Stooping down, he took the dirty
little animal in his arms, and carried it to a
butcher's stall near ; on examining it, he
found its hind legs were broken. " Poor
thing !" he said, with genuine pity in his
voice, as lie put some money into the man's
hand, "take care of it until it is well.
Mind you take care of it, and feed it ! if hot,
I shall know how to treat you when I sec
you again." The man promised readily,
but at the same time looked with bewildered
astonishment at this eccentric person, who
could care for the sufferings of a dog ; and
as he went out, the butcher muttered to
himself, " Ah, this must be the forrnlicre
who has been so good to the sick. May the
Madonna and all the saints bless him ! "

On he went from one house to another,
speaking words of kindness and encourage-
ment, giving money, wine, or bread, as they
were needed. In one room of a distressingly
miserable place was a little girl of eight or
nine years, who had been, with her old
grandmother, just to the verge of the grave,
but both had now turned back to tread a
little longer the paths of life, one with
the trembling feet of age, the other with
the unheeding steps of childhood. He loved
this dark-eyed child ; she was very patient
and docile, and he had seen her often during
her illness. Now he leaned over the mis-
erable bed, and said gently, ".1 no la /n!<t, I
am going away for a few days. I have come
to say addlo, and you must be quite well
when I return."

The child threw her thin arms around his
neck, and, drawing his bearded face close to
hers, she murmured, " O cam >'////-
love you, and I will pray to the blessed
Madonna to bring you hack quickly."

The tears filled his eyes and fell on her
pale cheek as he stooped to kiss her: then
he turned away, to continue his work of
mercy far into the night.

When he reached his room he threw him-
self into an arm-chair weary and e.\h;i
yet feeling he had done a little to lighten
his own burden, as well as that of oth-
ers.

And this was Richard Vandeleur, the fas-
tidious man of the world, the giv idler in
the haunts of fashion and vice, the scoll'er,
the sceptic, who had years before cea>eil to
believe in the purity of any motive, that in-
fluenced the heart.

That ni<2'ht he had carried a wounded

WOVEN" OF MANY THREADS.

dirty animal in his arms from pity, and had
wept over the: sick-bed of a pauper.

CHAPTER XXI.

AM I WORTHY TO BE TOUR FRIEND ?

rpHERE was a great festa in St. John
J_ Lateran, at Borne, that beautiful basilica
which stands like a sentinel before the gates,
and whose marble Christ and ten Apostles
seem to keep watch and ward over the great
city, wide campagna, and distant moun-
tains.

This day, over all the long flight of steps
and at all the entrances were strewn the
odorous box and bay, and all the doors were
hung with fluttering silk curtains bordered
with gold, and around all the massive pil-
lars were twined and interlaced festoons
of crimson and white. Thousands of can-
dles burned before the altars, and flowers
loaded the air with perfume. Crowds were
passing in, from the magnificent Roman
princes, with their liveried lackeys, to the
poorest contadini, all received alike in the
temple of God.

The mass of people swayed back and
forth as the guards made way for the pro-
cession of cardinals, bishops, priests, and
then the Pope, with his gorgeous retinue.
Guido sang, and every one crowded to hear
him. In fact, he went, like the beloved
Raphael in other days, followed by his
throng of imitators and admirers. All the
young musicians loved him and copied him ;
he was now far above those who had envied
him in the early days of his career. So
friend and foe bowed alike at the shrine
where the world worshipped.

He sansr, with all the pathos of his won-
derful voice, that touching prayer,

" Signer, pieti '. se ate giunge il mio pregar
Non mi puuisca. il tuo rigor."

And he sang with the same power that,
nearly two hundred years before, had soft-
ened the hearts and changed the purpose
of the assassins who had entered that sacred
edifice to take the life of the unfortunate
Stradella. Even as the crowd were then
ready to fall down and worship that ill-fated
younjr sincrer, so now was the great mass of
people filled with tho same enthusiastic de-
light at Guide's marvellous execution.

Constance sat near the choir with her
friends, who freely expressed their admira-
tion ; but she said nothing. Her face was
unusually pale, and her eyes had a solemn
expression, blended with adoration, as she
gazed at the noble form of the young singer.
Sometimes Guide's eyes would meet hers
for a moment, and express all his gratitude
and joy at her evident appreciation.

It was through music their souls held in-
tercourse and comprehended each other ;
consequently the moments she listened to his
voice were the happiest of her life.

Before one of the altars, surrounded by
several nuns, knelt Sister Agatha, rapt in
a sort of trance as she listened to Guide's
voice and at the same time looked on the
pictured Christ in the last agony of his
mortal struggle. She was paler, older, and
more worn, but still the same placid face
beamed under the stiff white cap and black
serge veil. She was no longer in the camera
della rota at Santo Spirito, for when the
sisterhood of the Sacre Ctxur established
their convent in the Villa Lanti, the position
of mother assistant had been piven her, a
more honorable position than that which she
held at Santo Spirito, but cften she longed
for the -old wards, and the baby faces, and
the Warm little living hands that strayed
over her face and clung around her neck.
She had a woman's heart, this poor nun ;
at d her life there afforded her some outlet
for the tender feelings, that cannot be turned
inward to feed upon self, or even be given
all to God. Her life now was colder, more
austere, mere dignified, but less satisfactory.
She still loved Guido with the, same deep
affection, which she never could quite un-
derstand. In spite of all her prayers to the
Madonna to remove it from her heart if it
were unlawful, it still flourished as green
and fresh as on the night when he first smiled
in her face under the shadow cf Santo
Spirito. For the Santa Madre was a wo-
man and loved her dear son, and wept, and
fainted at the cross, as any earthly mother
would have done to see her dear child
suffering the agonies cf death. And Sister '
Agatha loved Guido as a child, ar.d so the
dear Madonna did cot wither or crush this
affection, but left it to grow, and blossom,
and bring forth fruit.

And Filomena was there listening, with all
her heart in her eyes, to the divine voice
of il caro maestro. She was no longer the
poor dejected creature who had brought
him under her shawl back to Santo Spirito,
weeping bitterly because she was too poor to
keep him. Now she was well dressed and
healthy, and if it had rot been for the red
stain on her cheek she would not have been
ill-looking. As it was, she had the air of
one well satisfied with the world ; but, if
you examined her face moie closely, there
was an expression which told plainly that
she was not altogether satisfied with herself.

Near her stood a tall, bearded man, who
scarcely removed his eyes from her, and,
whichever way she turned, he too turned
in the samo direction, as if to keep her al-
ways in sight.

When the service was finished and the
people passed out, he followed close

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

behind her, until they gained the piazza,
where the crowd was not so dense ; then he
advanced to her side, and said, in a voice
slightly tremulous, " Your name is Filome-
na, is it not ? "

" Yes," she replied, starting and turning
pale ; " but why do you wish to know V "

" I have something to say to you ; when
and where can I see you ? "

" To-night, at my house, if you wish " ;
and she added tho street and number.

" Very well," he said, " I will be there at
seven " ; and, without adding another word,
he turned away.

" lie brings me some news of my child,
my Mona," said the poor mother, following
him with her CVLS. " O, if God has but put
it into her heart to acknowledge her poor
parents, it will be a happy day for my Be-
nedetto and me ! I am sure it'sheoeuld see
us, how our condition is chanrtpa, she
would be no longer ashamed of us. But eld
sa ? perhaps it is the good news he has come
to bring us."

At ceven o'clock, punctually, some one
rang. Filomena opened the door, and there
stood the stranger. She invited him into
her little room, closed the door, offered him ;
a seat, and then stood before him, trem-
blingly, waiting for him to speak.

" Do you not know me ? " he said, after a !
moment's pause, stroking his beard slowly,
and looking her steadily in the face.

" No, no," with a puzzled ah*, returning
his penetrating gaze, " and yet your eyes
are familiar. But Signor mio I " she
cried, cla -ping her hands, " tell me if you
have any news of my child."

A sudden pallor passed over his face, and I
then he said, " Do you remember the
re Inylene, who lived ten years ago in the I
palace where your husband was porter ? "

" Dio mio .' I do remember him. He it
was who robbed ns of our child, curses on
him!"

"Hush! hush! I am he; it was I who
took her from you ; and now I am come to
you to learn something of her."

" You ? " she cried, starting back. " Nev-
er ! never ! But where is my child ? " and
the woman advanced toward him and shook
her clenched hand menacingly in his face,
while her black eyes and the crimson stain
on her die' I: !>urned like fire. "Tell me
quickly, tell me what have you done with
my child ? Where is she ? "

" I do not know," he said, taking her
hands and forcm:; her gently into a chair.
"Becalm, I implore you; 1 have much to
say to you ; be calm, and listen to me."

" You, the villain who has robbed me of
my only child! you tell me to be calm.
Ah, you do not know a mother's heart, i will
have your life's blood if you do not bring
back my child."

" O, hush ! I beseech you ! If you will
not listen to me, I can do nothing," he said,
in a sad, discouraged voice. " Jt is true, I
deserve all your reproaches, all your indig-
nation and anger ; but that cannot undo
what has been done. I wish now to make
all the reparation in my power, if it is not
too late. Listen, while 1 tell you all, and
then, perhaps, you may pity me."

His humble, sad voice touched the not
unfeeling heart of the woman, and seemed
to subdue her fury. She buried her lace in
her hands, and waited in silence lor him to
begin.

Then he told her all, from the hour of
the false marriage to the last effort he had
made at Pescara, a few weeks before. She
often interrupted him during the recital
with cries of auger, indignation, and sor-
row, and exclamations of " O ji;/li"
mingled with sobs and curses on her seducer.

" And you have heard nothing from her? "
he inquired, wistfully, when he had fin-
ished.

" Nothing ! she has been dead to us since
the night she left us. Shortly after, we re-
ceived a large sum of money, and since, at
different times, smaller amounts; so we
knew it must come from our child ; and we
thought she was rich and happy, but did
not wish to come back because she was
a>ha-ned of her poor, ignorant parents."

" I sent the money," he said ; " first at
her suggestion, and after because I wished
in some way to atone for my sin. Did you
think she had married the man she had fled
with ? "

" Certainly. I who knew the pure, in-
nocent heart of my child, and the strength
of her virtue, knew, also, that nothing would
induce her to listen to any other proposal :
and you, who had had the sxre 'test proof of
her purity, how could you doubt her because
one whom you knew to be a villain de-
ceived you? O man, blind, stupid, hive
you not yet learned to know that there
has been some fearful wroirj; in all tbis ?
My child was innocent ; I know it as well
as though she told me so before the face of
the Madonna. That bad man in whose care
you left her has Icvcivcd you and wi-
the ruin of both ! " and, covering her
she rocked to and fro as though a mighty
wind had passed over her, always moaning,
" O my poor child, you aiv io for-

ever ! I know that nothing but death could
keep you from your mother's he-ir; I "

" Patience, patience, my poor friend ! " he
said, gently taking her livmblin: hands in
liis; -let us still seek her. tru-tin'_' in (lod
to aid us, and if we find her, and she is
free, she shall be my wife, honored ami be-
loved, and you may yet b happy with your
child. I cann;)l think die i- 1 ad ; neither
can I now believe she is with that man. O,

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

I had hoped that in all these years you
uii-lil have heard something from her ! "

"I will serk i'or her im>elt," said Filo-
mena; " the heart of a mother will lead me
to her. Yes, to-morrow J will begin my
search, and 1 will not rest until I find her.
I forgive you," she said, laying her hand
heav'ilv on his shoulder, "1 Ibrgive you, but
on the" condition that if I discover my child,
and she is free, you will at once make her
your wife."

'' 1 swear it," he said, starting up, with a
new light in his eyes ; li the hour I can make
that reparation will be my first hour of true
peace since I committed that crime."

" We all have sinned," said the woman,
and a strange expression passed over her
face ; " and every sin brings its punishment,
but every sin is not a crime. For this, no
reparation can be too great."

" Jt is true ; your words are just, and I de-
serve your bitterest reproaches ; but all
that human power can do I will do to atone
for this great wrong. You know how I
have sinned ; but God only knows how I
have suffered."

The woman's face softened, and she said
gently, " Pazienza, and we will hope for the
best."

Richard Vandeleur arose, and, taking a
roll of bank-notes from his pocket, he laid
them on the table with a card, saying, " Use
this in your search, and spare no expense. I
shall leave here directly for Paris, where I
hope to learn something of De Villicrs.
Here is my address ; if you have anything
to communicate, write to me at once."

He opened the door to go, when the voice
of some one singing in an adjoining room
fell upon his ear ; he started, turned pale,
and inquired almost breathlessly who it was.

" It is a young English lady, the Signo-
rina Wilbrcham," replied Filomena.

Without a word he stepped toward the
door. It was ajar, and he entered. Con-
stance was alone in the salon, and at the
piano. When she saw this tall, bearded
man in the door, she arose, and came for-
ward to know his wishes. Suddenly she
stopped, arrested by his eyes, whose ex-
;:iv>Mon she always remembered. She
leaned with one hand on the back of a chair,
and, holding out the other, said, calmly,
" This is a surprise, Mr. Vandeleur, but you
arc nevertheless welcome."

" Thank you," he replied ; " I heard your
voice, and I could not resist the desire to
speak with you."

" I am very glad to have the opportunity."
She spoke calmly and truthfully. She could
meet tin- man without emotion, whom she
had parted from but a year and a half
before nearly brokeq-hearted. " I thought
you were in the East," she continued.

"I returned some months ago." And

then, sitting down by her side, as an old
fiiend after a long parting, he recounted to
her all his wanderings, his useless quest,
his bitter disappointment at the interview
with Filomena, and his resolves for the fu-
ture. Then, holding out his hand, he said,
with a grave smile, " And now am I wor-
thy to be your friend ? "

She took the proflered hand in both hers,
and, looking into his eyes that beamed with
calm friendship, she replied, " Yes, yes, and
this is the most satisfactory moment of my
life. I have thought of you, and prayed
for you, that you might see your duty and
perform it ; and in the trying are you not
happier ? Do you not find that your abne-
gation of self is bringing its rew;,r<l."

"In a measure," he replied s-okmnly;
" but I can know no real peace until I have
made ofcue reparation."

" Yon are (iohig all you can. < 'n.<\ is mer-
ciful ; - will accept the ardent desire for
the fulfilment. Trust in him, and the peace
will ccme in his own time."

" And you," he inquired, looking earnest-
ly into her face, " are you happy ? "

" Ah, yes ! as happy as I can be without
my dear father. You, who knew him, can
understand what I have lost." She spoke
of his death with tearful eyes, then of her
new home, her different pursuits, her vari-
ous engagements, but never a word of that
episode in their lives, the strange discovery
on that dull September day, that had led to
such unexpected results. Then they had
parted with bleeding hearts, each to take up
separately the burden of life which they had
thought to bear together ; neither daring to
pray to see again the face of the other,
only feeling a strong conviction that they
must put distance between them, and leave
to Time, the great healer, to cure the wounds
that Fate had made.

Scarcely a year and a half had passed, and
they had met, but not as either expected, in
a foreign land, each with a separate purpose
in their lives.

O, how inscrutable is the destiny that
ever goes before us with veiled face 1 It is
well for us that the veil is never drawn
aside, for what is hidden is not to be re-
vealed until our journey is done and the
shadows fall behind.

When Madame Landel entered the salon,
she could scarcely conceal her surprise at
finding Mr. Vandeleur and Constance sit-
ting side by side, and talking as calmly as
friends who had met after a day's parting.

" I find y<yu so much changed I hardly
recognized you," she said, after a rather
troubled greeting.

" Yes, I am changed," ho replied, a little
sadly. "Exposure to burning Eastern euns
and desert life does not improve one's
looks."

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

After a few remarks on indifferent mat-
ters he arose to take leave, saying he must
start for Florence in the ten o'clock train.

" Then you do not remain in Rome," ex-
claimed Madame Landel, with some surprise
in her voice.

No, 1 have work that calls me away. I
am no longer an idler," he said, with a sad
smile, as he shook hands. " You may see
me again later in the season."

Constance looked after him, as he left the
room, with a mournful presentiment that she
should see him no more as then. Her
thoughts were prophetic. Poor heart ! No-
ble to the last, he found peace, but only
when the wing of the white angel had
waved over him.

\ AT F ?

CHAPTER XXII.

WAS IT POVERTY OR SHAME

THE next morning after her interview
with Mr. Vandeleur, Filomena entered
the room of Guido. Her face was very
pale, and her eyes red and swollen from a
sleepless night and almost constant weep-
ing.

Guido was writing, but he started up, and,
giving her a chair, inquired anxiously the
cause of her trouble. He had always felt
for the woman a sort of affection and re-
spect, and had ever listened patiently to
the recital of every sorrow or annoyance,
advising and sympathizing with her in the
most tender manner. Indeed, she looked
upon him as an oracle, and whatever he
suggested she immediately acted upon,
believing implicitly it was best in every
way.

This morning, before beginning her story,
she began sobbing; so it was necessary to
use all sorts of gentle words to calm and
console her. After the first burst of pas-
sionate grief she became more quiet, and re-
cited intelligibly all the details of her inter-
view with Mr. Vandeleur.

Guido could not refrain from expressing
his deep indignation at the great wrong
that had been practised upon the innocent
girl, and his real grief at her uncertain
fate. He had grown, like her parents, to
think of her as the wife of the rich English-
man, living somewhere in luxury, happy
and respected. And now this news changed
all. If the poor wanderer were still alive,
where was she, and in what position ?

' Yes," he said, after a few moments' deep
thought, " yes, she must be found, and
you are the one to seek for her. Begin at
once, and my prayers and best wishes go
with you. If you need me, you have but to
say so, and I am ready to assist you in any

way possible. And this cruel, base English-
man, can God let him go uiipuni-li^ilV"
Guido' s cheek flushed, and the old fire of
San Michelc shot from his eyes. " Curse
him ! If I could name his expiation, it should
be bitter to endure."

" Hush,jiylio mio I " said Filomena. " He
has been punished by much suffering. Re-
morse and regret are stamped on every line
of his worn face. I, her mother, pitied him
so that I could not find it in my heart to
curse him when I had heard "his story.
And he loves her, he loves her yet; after
all these years, he pines to look upon her
face."

" Enough," said Guido. " If he has suf-
fered, I forgive him. I, also, pity every one
that suffers." Then he gave her many direc-
tions in regard to her search, counselled and
encouraged her, telling her to let him know
from time to time of her progress, and, bid-
ding her " God speed," they parted.

After she had gone, he sat long in an at-
titude of deep dejection and painful thought.
His face was pale and worn, his eyes heavy
and sad ; in fact, his whole appearance be-
tokened a fierce mental struggle. Since
the day of the visit to the fountain of
Egeria, nearly a month before, he had been
miserable. He saw at once that all his fu-
ture happiness depended upon his driving
this passion from his heart. It must be
done with a firm, unflinching will. He
believed he had strength to do it. But he
had not yet learned the power of love.
Before he had known Conetance he had
been comparatively contented vdth his lot,
happy in his devotion to his beloved art,
and believing life had nothing more in
store for him than the every-day duties
that devolved upon him. lie had thought
little of love, and never dreamed of mar-
riage, because he had never loved. And
he had never loved, because the being to
call forth that passion in the pure, devout
heart of the young man had never until
then crossed his path. Now an uncontrol-
lable fate had brought them together.
Their souls, created for each oth'.rr, had
recognized the truth, and demanded impera-
tively that union of all others the holiest.
But Guido dared not tell his love, be-
cause the barriers that separated them
seemed to him impassable. Fir^t, his situa-
tion in the service of the Pope was held
under vows of celibacy. If he mnrrii'd,
he must renounce it. Then his poverty,
and, more insurmountable than all, his ob-
scure birth, and the evident dishonor at-
tached to it. All this he understood and
felt as he never had before ; and the more
he thought, the more he felt how impossible
it, wns that Constance could return his love.
And if she could, would not her pride re-
volt against such a union ? For hours in the

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

F ilence of the night, and during the occupa-
tions of the day, he brooded over these
difficulties until his spirits and healti: were
seriously affected. Then, sometimes, he
would think, almost joyfully, if this mystery
attending his hirth could be explained the
other obstacles might be surmounted. For
something in his heart told him this girl
loved him, and when she loved, no worldly
interest could keep her from the man to
whom she had given her heart. " For her,"
he thought, " I could resign my much cov-
eted position, could leave my dear Italy,
and make for myself an honorable career in
some other land ; and then I could ask her
to share my lot. If I could but penetrate
this mystery, and know at least that I was
not the fruit of sin. But O, it is impos-
sible ! I have no means, no power, to bring
to light this secret hidden by time and
silence."

One day Sister Agatha sat alone in her
little private room in the convent of the
Sacre Cceur. She looked sad and old, but
placid and patient. Before her, on a table,
were a number of papers, which she was
busily assorting and arranging. There was
a knock at the door, and Guido entered.
Throwing his broad-brimmed hat on a chair
with a gesture of irritation and impatience,
altogether unlike his gentfe manner, he fell
on his knees before the nun, and, burying
his face in his hands, he cried out in sharp,
passionate tone?, " madre mia, I am so
miserable ! I cannot endure this suffering
any longer ; I am come to thee for consola-
tion."

Sister Agatha gently drew his hands
from his face, and, pushing back the soft
hair from his forehead, she looked long and
anxiously into his eyes, saying all the virile,
" Guido mio, thou must not forget that I am
human, and can do very little for thee ; I
love thee and pity thee, but it is to the
Mother of God, the Blessed Virgin, thou
must carry thy sorrow. Remember, my
child, that it is she alone who, by her
merciful intercession, can aid thee."

" Ah ! I know that, my mother, I know
all that ; but this sorrow is something re-
ligion cannot cure," he replied, with more
irreverence in his voice than she had ever
heard before.

She looked surprised, and somewhat
grieved, but she continued gently, never-
theless, ' My Guido knows it is only the Ma-
donna who can help him ; but tell me thy
trouble, and I will pray to our Blessed Lady
for thee."

Then Guido, with bowed head and
softened voice, told her of his love for Con-
stance, its hopelessness, and his dcspiir.

" Poor boy 1 " she said tenderly, when he
had finished, "I pity thee; but "thou must
have patience, and if she loves thee she will

ignore these circumstances that separate
thee from her. Perhaps I should say to
thee that love and marriage arc not thy
highest calling, that thy life should Lo en-
tirely consecrated to God and the Holy
Mother ; but I cannot, no, I cannot. If thou
lovest with the true and pure love that
comes from God, it is thy vocation to ac-
cept it. The holy passion that he hath
given thee should not be chilled or crushed.
And if it is meant only for discipline, it is
because thou hast need of it, and he will in
time remove thy idol and gently draw thy
suffering heart to him, to teach thee with
pain and chastening that his love is better
than earthly passion. My Guido must look
at it in this way, and then whatever comes
will be best."

the soft eyes of the nun ;
of her youth returned
her, her girlish passion for her
lover ; those eyes that were so
soon disliked iu death: li;;;t. sn.iii.! of infi-
nite sweetness that even now, after all
these years, sometimes came between her
and her prayers ; her wild agony when
they were parted; her despair, her hope-
lessness ; her renunciation of the wcrld, to
enter her living tomb; the weeks, months,
and years of struggling to tear his memory
frcni her heart, that she might give it all to
God, bleeding and lacerated though it was.

Guido remained lost in thought for a
few moments, and then, clasping bis hands,
while the tears fell from his eyes, he cried,
" No, no, I cannot be resigned to lose
her. I have never but half lived until she
smiled upon me. If I must be separated
from her forever, life is finished for me.
Henceforth there is nothing but elaikness
and despair." The nun clasped his hands
in hers, and pressed her pale lips to them
without a word. What more could she
say?

" But, my mo'Jier," continued Guido, with
eagerness in his voice, " is there no way I
can fathom the mystery that envelopes my
birth ? If I could but know I was abandoned
from poverty, and not shame, I would not
fear to ask for her love. Tell me what you
believe ; was it poverty or shame ? "

" It was not poverty, my Guido," replied
the nun, in a low voice. " I am sure you
came of gentle parents. Look!" And, open-
ing a drawer in a cabinet, she took there-
from a bundle of baby-linen, on which was
fastened a card bearing the number 36,
and the date October 23. The linen was
of the most costly fabric, trimmed with deli-
cate lace and embroidery. ' ; Look/' she
said, "these were upon thee when they
brought thee to Santo Spirito. A child of
poverty could not be swathed in such fine
linen."

"Then," cried the young man, with a

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

groan of agony, " it could only have been
shame that caused the concealment of my
birth. It is useless ; we are separated for-
ever; I cannot struggle against the destiny j
that overwhelms me. I must keep silent, !
I must never tell her of my love ; and then j
what is there in life for me ? Nothing. My |
art has lost the power to console me, my |
religion ah ! she is my idol, my saint ;
when I count my rosary and repeat my
paternosters, her face comes between me and
the Madonna."

" Guido," said the nun, sternly, " thy
words are almost blasphemy. Go to the
nearest church, and there on your knees be-
fore the image of the suffer ing Christ, pray
for pardon. Remember we are not chil-
dren whom the blessed Lord bribes to good-
,nes3 by the promise of some desired object.
Be good and patient first, and the Madonna
will intercede for thee, that thy reward may
be given thee."

Guido took the nun's hand, and pressing
it reverently to his lips, and murmuring
some half-inaudible promises of penitence
and prayer, he went away with bowed head
and gloomy brow, like the poor wretches
who left the chamber of the Council of Ten
to cross the Bridge of Sighs to the prison of
condemnation ; for to him hope had fled,
the death-warrant to his happiness had been
signed, and was he not doomed to a greater
suffering than the axe of the executioner or
the rest and forgetfulness of the grave ?

CHAPTER XXIII.

LET ME LIVE IN THE PRESENT.

NE evening, Constance and Mrs. Tre-
maine sat by the drawing-room fire,
chatting on all sorts of subjects. The Prince
and Mr. Carnegie had just left, and Madame
Landel had gone to her room with a head-
ache.

Helen had been in the most brilliant flow
of spirits all the evening. She had sung,
laughed, and talked with increasing vivaci-
ty, while both the Prince and Mr. Carnegie
had been unusually sad and abstracted.

To Constance, Helen was an enigma
which she in vain tried to solve. And now,
as she leaned back in an arm-chair, her gold-
en hah* pushed away from her forehead, her
feet on the fender, and her arms lazily folded,
her gayety seemed in no whit to abate.
Her eyes sparkled, and the red spot burned
on her cheek with an almost feverish bright-
ness. Was she acting a part? I do not
know, I cannot declare ; but from what oc-
curred afterwards, one might say she was.

" I wonder why Signer Guido never comes
now in the evening," she said. " You know

there was a time he came nearly always, and
now I never see him, except when I steal in
at the end of your lessons. And then he
looks so pale and melancholy, he certainly
is quite changed these few weeks pa-t. I
think he must be in love with one of us, and
is determined to keep out of temptation. I
wonder which it is, for I am sure he is in
love ; I never mistake the signs. I think it
must be you, dear, for I am certain I never
would suit him, I am much too wicked."

Constance colored a little, but laughed
and said, "I think he is too wise to fall in
love with either of us, and besides you for-
get he is quite the same as a priest." And
then, to change the subject, " But what was
the matter with the Prince to-night ? He cer-
tainly seemed quite depressed, an unusual
thing for him."

" Did he, indeed ? I did not observe it,"
replied Helen. " I suppose his affairs are
not in ti very prosperous condition. Lady
Charlotte told me to-day that he had offered
his most valuable picture for sale, a splendid
Giorgione. Fancy a prince so poor that he
is obliged to sell his family pictures 1 "

" Helen, you will not be displeased if I
ask you a question ? " said Constance, after
a few moments' thought.

" No, indeed ; ask as many as you wish,
only don't lecture.

" Do you love the Prince ? Because you
know, dear, he must marry an heiress, and is
it right to go on in this way if you can never
be his wife?'" Constance sat on a low
ottoman at her friend's side, and as she
spoke she took one of the white hands and
pressed it gently to her cheek, looking ear-
nestly into the inscrutable blue eyes, bent in
mock gravity upon her. " Tell me, do you
love the Prince ? "

" I love him ? yes, certainly ; but I sup-
pose I have loved twenty others in the same
way. How can I tell whether this is the
divine passion or not ? "

" O Helen ! do not speak lightly of this ;
I am sure we love but once."

"Nonsense, moonshine, stuff'! we love as
often as we meet any one simpatico, as the
Italians say. Why, only fancy, vulgar lit-
tle wretch that I was ! when I was twelve
years old I was madly in love with the butch-
er's boy, an urchin a little older than my-
self, so fat, with rosy cheeks, curly hair, and
black eyes. And how do you think this grace-
ful creature expressed the first budding of the
tender passion ? Why, by bringing me pigs'
tails, which the cook secretly roasted for me
in the ashes ; and I can assure you it v> as
food fit for the gods, for at that period I was
always hungry. One day mamma entered
the kitchen unawares, and caught him surrep-
titiously slipping a fine large pig's tail into
my apron, which he had stolen from his
master as a love-offering to me. My surprise

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

and confusion were terrible when mamma,
with a not very gentle shake, ordered me to
the nursery, threw the delicious morsel into
the sink, exclaiming ' Nasty thing ! ' and told
the butcher's boy never to show his rosy
visage on her premises again. Would you
believe it ! I cried for several days and
nights for the loss of my dark-eyed cherub,
or the savory pigs' tails, I don't remember
which."

Constance could not refrain from laugh-
ing a little, but she said very gravely, " Dear
Helen, don't turn this subject into ridi-
cule. 1 am sure you do not mean what you
say."

" I quite mean it," she replied, smiling
mischievously. " My own experience teaches
me the instability of the tender passion.
And then how one's taste changes ! My
first love was fat and rosy. Then there
succeeded a liking for pale slim lads with
long hair, lawyers' clerks and apothe-
caries' apprentices. When I was sixteen
nothing pleased me but fast, distingue young
men, who sported gold chains, diamond
studs, and eye-glasses, who simpered and
bowed and grinned, and twisted their mus-
taches. Then a little later, I thought all
middle-aged men divine ; those who wore
mourning hat-bands and black gloves,
scholarly-looking, melancholy individuals,
whom I always fancied 1 o be poets that the
world did not appreciate. I doted on gray
hair, and grizzled beard, and declared I
would rather be an old man's darling than
the remainder of the proverb. Now that I
have arrived at the age of discretion, with
all these experiences to teach me, how can
I believe in the stability of love ? "

" Then you have never loved, dear," said
Constance, softly, and with a slight blush.
" If you had, you would know that all the
preferences of which you have spoken are
nothing but a girl's foolish fancies. But I
believe the experience must come to us all
once in a life. If you have escaped, it will
come later, and then you will believe what
I say to be true ; but, Helen, if you do not
love the Prince, is it right to show such a
decider! preference for his society ? One can
see his heart is all yours ; how can you trifle
with him so ? "

" Trifle with him ! " she exclaimed, with a
sudden burst of emotion, covering her face
with 4mr hand?, " trifle with him ! Good
Heavens ! cannot you see how madly, how
entirely, I love him ? "

' ; Hush, dear," said Constance, tenderly,
" let us talk of this calmly. I have always
believed you loved him, but your own words
contradicted your actions. Do you under-
stand each other ? Does he know you love
him ? "

" Certainly he knows it, and he also
knows how hopeless our future is, poor

darling ! It is for that he is so sad, it is for
that he is almost in despair."

" Why, " said Constance, " when you
have known from the first the utter hope-
lessness of this love, why have you encour-
aged it ? and is it not better now to break
off at once all intercourse, and try by every
means possible to forget him ? "

" To forget him ! Never ! If forgetting
him would save me from years of torment,
I would not forget him for one moment ;
neither will I separate myself from him one
hour sooner than is absolutely necessary.
No, no, do not preach. Let me live in the
present ; there is no future for me ; all that
will come after can be nothing but a desolate
blank. The only joy that can -vivify it will
be the remembrance of these hours you so
coolly advise me to give up. I know wa
must part, and part ' orever. I know it well.
1 have known it from the mcmcnt we first
met ; yet 1 would rather give twenty years
of my life than never to have seen him, or
than to lose one hour of the present."
She spoke very calmly now, and her eyes
were dimmed with tears and tender sadness.
" Yes, I have been happy ; I have known
the bliss of loving and being loved. What
does it matter i? we lose a few years of
the future ? We shall meet, and live, 1 trust,
forever in eternity. I think God permits
us to carry with us to paradise some sweet
memory of earth, to show us what Eden was
before the fall. This precious memory will
be mine. I cannot expect a lifetime of
such bliss. It is not allowed to mortals.
In a lew weeks I have enjoyed more of
happiness than is given to most lives ; there-
fore, darling, I cannot complain. It is best
as it is ; we have met and loved, and we
must part ; the future," a light shiver
passed over her, and she turned deadly
pale, " it may be dreary, but it cannot be
long. I know it cannot be long. Prisoners
die sometimes for need of light. It will be
so with me. I cannot live in darkness. But
I shall be contented if I may die in his
arms, and be the first to welcome him to
eternal love."

" Forgive me, dear," said Constance, with
tearful eyes, " forgive me ; for I bavc not
understood you. I have not known how good
and patient you are. But why, if you love
each other with such fervor and strength,
is it imperative that you should part?
What does it matter if you are not rich?
You can be happy together if the Prince
does not regain the palaces of his ancestors.
Do not speak so sadly ; I am sure all will
yet be well."

" No, no, dear/' gently laying her fingers
on the lips of Constance, " you must not
speak of it. I shall never be his wife ; it
cannot be. I shall always love him, and
that will be enough for me. But let me live

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

in the present ; God will take care of the
future. It is one o'clock," she said, looking
at her watch, " we must go to bed ; indeed,
I am very happy with his love and your
friendship and sympathy, and I cannot be
altogether miserable." Then, smiling half
sadly and halt' sweetly, she said "good
night," and, taking her candle, left the
room.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE RETREAT OF A SUFFERING HEART.

GUIDO had invited them all to accom-
pany him to Sant' Onolrio, the retreat

tors, as judges, as sculptors, as painters, as
poets.

" What had become of that enthusiasm
which was the soul of the Jerusalem De-
livered? It was gone. Adieu to that living
fire, that spirit of joy, which the poet, in love
with liis own work, imparts to all his crea-
tions. To what penitence the Church made
his genius submit ! That muse, by turns so
human and so celestial, that muse, which
knew how to take every tone and unite
them in one delicious harmony, that muse
which painted with words of fire the fever of
love and the accents of peace and gentle-
ness, the presence of God in the heart of the
just, must expiate the crime it had com-
mitted by repeating upon its lyre all the

of the heart-broken Tasso, when, weary of I songs of the soul. And for daring to find

the world and its injustice, mourning for the
loss of his beloved Leonora, ill in body and
mind, he entered to leave no more the place
he had chosen of all others in which to
pass peacefully the remainder of his sad life.
They first visited the church, and looked
upon the tomb where rests all that was inor
tal of the great poet. Under a gorgeous
monument, above which his statue, with
youthful, earnest face, ever looks up, as if
seeking Divine inspiration, lies the heart
that so longed for the rest of death. The
weary, tormented soul, the restless spirit,
tlia mortal languor, the deceit and vanity of
all things, the coriuptiou of the flesh, the
weakness and insufficiency of human rea-

son, the power of the prince of darkness,
and the belief in the anger of an avenging
God, all weighed heavily on the suffer-
ing, sensitive heart, until they crushed and
consumed it.

" He was a great poet." said Guido,

sadly, " but a most unhappy man. Toward .

the close of his life he sank into a state of j joyed neither. They could not sink to the
deplorable religious fanaticism. He main j world, because they were not of it ; nor
tained that all systems and all thoughts of j could they mount to heaven, because the
the human heart are but a long succession ' wings that desired to rise were borne down
of contradictions. His essay on Idols bears j by the weight of day."

something of God in the clay of which our
passions are moulded, penitent sinner, see
him pass before us, uncrowned, his head
covered with ashes, hiding his captive wings
under the sackcloth."

" Why is it," said Constance, " that great
genius is so often at war with the simplicity
of life ? Does God design, when he clothes
it with common clay, that it should forget
its humanity and aspire to be equal with
the Creator ? Has not an unlawful ambition
been too often the cause of suffering to
these great hearts ? "

" They saw more than we," replied
Guido. " They sometimes penetrated into
the sublime mysteries of the soul ; they

wrapped themselves in a mantle not alto-
gether woven of the. common woof of earth,
and which shrank tremblingly away from
the incongruities of life ; and the nearer
they approached the divine, the more the
mortal combated with what it could not
resist. So they in their dual existence en-

the seal of the most sombre asceticism.
He condemns all the poems that cannot be
accepted by the Church. He says idolaters
are those poets who give place in their
verse to the gods of Olympus : idolaters are

Ah, Signor Guido," said the Prince,
who stood near with Mrs. Trcmaine on his
arm, " your theory is very pretty. But it
is

my belief that half their sorrows were
imaginary. I dare say, on the whole, they

they who sing of love, the most guilty of, were a set of jolly old fellows. Look at
idolaters; and he confesses that he himself Byron and Shakespeare, for example,
was in other times an idolater, for all souls your greatest poets, Miss Wilbreham ; they
that are attached to earth are temples con- did not disdain to partake of the comnmn
secrated to idols. Idolaters, again, are j enjoyments of life, nor to take deep
they who search for swift dogs for the chase, j draughts from the cups of illicit plea-nre. I
to pursue and worry their prey, and those must say that I am astonished myself that
who desire noble horses to shine in the men who, by the power of their gi
tournament, those who love the birds of j might have aspired to the purity or' an-els,
song, the gardens and the palaces, the mur- .-h .mid have so trailed their wings in the,
muring waters and the flowery hills, the

precious cloths, the perfumes of Arabia, the

mire of earth."

" Yet we know," replied Constant.

stones of the Orient ;* idolaters are those who j they were at times the prey of a devour-
aspire to be admired, as councillors, as doc- 1 ing melancholy."

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

"You have talked here long enough,"
said Mrs. Tremaine. " Let us go into the
garden ; I wish to see the oak under which
Tasso loved to sit during the last days of
his deplorable life."

" Is it a legend that the veritable oak of
Tasso was destroyed by lightning ? " in-
quired Madame Landel of Guido.

" I cannot say ; but I suppose it matters
little. We know in these gardens the poet
has walked with trembling steps, the fever
in his veins and the pallor of death upon
bis lips. He has rested under the shade of
the tree? ; and from this hill has contem-
plated, for the last time, the Eternal City."

It was near sunset when they crossed the
church, and entered the cloister surrounded
by graceful antique columns, sad, and gray,
and moss-covered. From these they passed
through a wicket gate into the garden.
Nothing could be more simple and rustic
than that rather, small enclosure, situated
upon the summit of the Janiculum, a field
of tomatoes, a few vines and fig-trees, an
ancient fountain, with moss-covered basin,
shaded by roses and laurel.

The slight murmur of a little rivulet, hid-
den entirely by the wild tangled grass,
flows at the foot of the hill, that rises sud-
denly and is surrounded by a mound of
turf. Near the convent is a grotto, the en-
trance to which is covered by shrubs and
vines, and above a niche ornamented with
a broken urn. Here everything is left to
desolation. The wild fern and acanthus
grow undisturbed, the ivy, nettle, and
thistle entangled with a fantastic vine that
runs over all.

On the side of the hill that overlooks
Rome is a small hemicycle of stone, sur-
rounded by a row of cypresses. It is there
that Filippo Neri assembled his young
pupils and taught them a style of church
music entirely new, those sacred works
called Oratorios. At the foot of the ter-
race is a little wall in ruin, and on the left
rises the enormous trunk of the oak of
Tasso. Ah, what a picture was spread out
before the eyes of the divine poet ! At the
right the long circle of the Janiculum, with
Trartavere at its feet ; its gardens, its vine-
yards, and its terraces crowned with
churches. At the base the Aventine, that
descends suddenly to the Tiber, whose course
can scarcely be seen save by the long line
of houses, high, narrow, irregular, and yel-
low as the water that bathes their feet,
pierced with little deep windows from which
flutter, like banners, rags of many colors.
Beyond is Rome, immense; from the
Piazza del Popolo to the pyramid of Ces-
tus ! Rome, with its tiled roofs covered
with faded and yellow moss, Rome, with its
splendors that nothing can equal, superbly
towering above all, its domes and cupolas

: painted with dusky gold ; and, far beyond,
the shady heights of the Pincio, the gardens
of Sallust, and the long verdant ravine that
separates the Quirinal from the Esquilin,
overshadowed by Santa Maria Magaicre.
Nearer, the tower of the Capitol, the Pala-
tine with its cypresses, myrtles, and pome-
granates trailing their abundant foliage
over the immense arches of the ruined pal-
aces of the Ceesars. The deserted Aventine,
with its solitary churches surrounded by
stunted olives ; the Coelian, with its long
sweep, terminated by the sublime basilica
of St. John Lateran. In spite of the dis-
tance, one could see outlined against the sky
the statues that surmount it. In the limpid
air they seemed like spirits who had poised
there a moment to take breath before their
flight to heaven. Farther away the cam-
pnyna, one long undulating sweep, destitute
of all verdure, save here and there a hoary
pine ; and farther still the Alban Moun-
tains, bathed in purple light. Then the
faint outline of the Sabincs, their summits
lost in the hazy atmosphere. Turning,
one sees Mount Vatican, St. Peter's, a row
of pines designed upon a gorgeous sunset
sky, the fig-trees and aloes impregnated
with a golden dust, and nearer the fountain,
a mass of liquid silver, on which trembles
long rays of rosy lights.

" Let us sit at the foot of the oak," said
Guido, " and fancy Tasso is sitting here
with us, pale and trembling with fever. ' To-

! night,' he says, ' I shall go to bed never to
rise again. I will look now at Rome for
the last time. There is the palace of Monte
Giordiano, where I lived in my early youth ;
r.nd beyond, the convent of Santa Maria
del 'Popolo, the asylum opened to my old

I age. Without the aid of those good

| brothers I should have died of hunger
long ago. Behind me is the Vatican,
where I have passed many hours of mortal
anxiety, always to be disappointed. Here
is the Capitol, where they prepared my
crown, a preparation, alas ! useless. The
fever that devours me had told too much.
Ah ! I will turn my eyes from that city
where I have so suffered, and contemplate
the mountains, the supreme ornament of
that vast picture. They communicate to the
soul infinite aspirations mixed with the
sweetness of eternal repose. That repose
begins for me. I have a foretaste of it.
I feel the overshadowing of ineffable peace.' "
All were silent for some moments, lost, in
thought, or contemplating the lovely scene
with mingled feelings of melancholy and
admiration.

Then the Prince said, " If I had the mis-
fortune to be a poet, I should not seek an
asylum here, lest the memory of the unhappy
Tasso should work the same disorder in me.
I believe his diseased mind magnified trifling

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

ills into great realities, and that exaltation
was accompanied by an access of fever and
delirium, until, weakened by his own vio-
lences, the spirit of revolt gave place to
meek resignation. If I should write his elegy,
I should conclude it in these words: <T<i>so
owed one Inlf of his misfortunes to the
weakness of his character, and the other half
to the beauty of his genius.' "

As the Prince finished, a monk approached
to tell them it was Ave Maria, and time to
close the gates. They gave a lingering look
at the lovely scene, and then slowly walked
down the silent garden, and by the sombre
cloister, out from the retreat of a suffering
heart into the gay, glad world.

Once Constance found herself near Guido,
who certainly had avoided her of late. She
glanced timidly into his face. It was sad
and gloomy, and he no longer met her eyes
with that tender intelligence that had been
so dear to her.

As they descended the long steep hill to
the carriage, Guido looked back at the sol-
emn pile, growing darker and more solemn
in the gathering twilight, and said, " All is
calm and tranquil there. How unlike the
strife and discord, the restless passions, of
the world ! I think a little later, when I
have grown entirely weary of life, I too shall
seek a refuge there. Some people are barn
at strife with happiness. I am one. Mel-
ancholy has been my inseparable companion.
The future has nothing to give me either of
love, honor, or happiness. Such a retreat
would- at least be a tranquil ending to a
weary life."

" O Signor Guido ! " she returned ear-
nestly, " you mistrust your own power. God
has given you a wonderful talent by which
you may win honor. The future is yours to
make yourself a noble career, if you will.
Why do you speak so despondingly ? "

" Because I have no motive, no aim, to
make me ambitious. I am alone in the
world, and there is none to care whether I
rise or fall. We cease to desire distinction
when there is no one to share our honor."

He spoke more bitterly than she had ever
heard him. And it was his first reference
in any way to himself. She longed lo say
soine'hing comforting to him, but they had
reached the carriage, and there was no op-
portunity. Neither she nor Guido took any
part in the conversation during the drive
home. Both seemed immersed in deep
thought.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE CHARITY OF THE WORLD.

" \^7 HERE is Si Snor Bernardo ? " said a
T T tall, thin lady, with a sharp nose,
and a little crimson line for lips, to anothcr-
9

distressingly fat, with nez retrousse, and shag-
gy eyebrows, from under which po-re 1 a pair
of hard steel-gray eyes. " How is it ? lie
used to be your chevalier at all the concerts,
and I never see him now."

It was in the concert-room of the Sala di
Dante that the thin lady a-kcd this question
of the fat friend at her i-ide. And Constance,
with Madame Landel, occupied the seat
directly behind, while Mrs. Tremaine, the
Prince, and Mr. Carnegie sat a few seats in
front of them. For the room was well filled
when they arrived, and it was impossible to
find places together.

" I don't know," replied the fat lady, in a
coarse, vulgar voice, " but I suppose he is
dangling after that English girl they say he
is in love with. The rest of her party are
here, and she is not with them. It is more
than likely she has stayed at home to enter-
tain her lover ! "

" Who are her party ? "

" Why, do you not know the yellow-haired
woman that all Rome is talking of, with her
two lovers, the Prince Conti, and that
stiff Scotchman, Carnegie ? They are al-
ways together."

" All ! this lady in the pearl satin, in the
third seat in front of us, between the Prince
and Mr. Carnegie ? "

"Yes, that is the lovely Mrs. Tremaine
that all the world is raving about. But is
n't it shocking the way she goes on with
Conti ? Every one knows he will never
marry her, and yet they make no secret of
their preference, but go into society openly,
as though they did not care what the world
thought."

" She is very lovely, certainly," observed
the thin lady. " But who is she ? Is she
one of the Tremaines of Sussex ? "

" I don't know. Nobody knows much
about her. But I believe she is of com-
mon family, and, besides, she his a hus-
band living from whom she is divorced, or
something of that sort. I dare say it was
her fault. Her manners are not those of a
proper person."

" But she goes into good society, does she
not ? "

" Yes, certainly. Though I was told the
other day that Lady Laura Cavendish
turned her back upon her at ail assembly.''

" Lady Laura Cavendish ! Well, that is
too good. It was not more than a year a'jjo
that the Queen refused to receive her at her
drawing-rooms. Well, such people usually
take the initiative in these matters. How-
ever, they should remember the old proverb
about those whtf live in glass houses* Bui
what did Mrs. Tremaine say ? "

" O, nothing ! She tossed her hf-ad,
laughed, took the arm of Conti, and walked
off. But hear how Conti took his revenue.
You know ho is a great friend of the Bor-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

ghese princes. So when they gave their
grand ball Lady Laura was not invited,
about the only foreigner of any note who was
left out. She was furious with rage. But this
Mrs. Tremaine was there in all her glory,
and received the most marked attention
from the Prince and Madame the Princess.
Of course, people do not like to offend Conti,
so that is the reason she is tolerated. But
it is a reproach on respectable families to
receive such a person."

" And her friend, the girl Signer Guido is
in love with, is she pretty ? "

" I have not seen her, but I have been
told she is one of the pale, interesting beau-
ties. Just the face to catch such a silly fellow."

" And her family ? "

" She is a clergyman's daughter at Helms-
ford. You remember Vandeleur? Well,
Helmsford is his estate. And I have it
from the best authority that he was en-
gaged to marry this girl, and that on the
very eve of the wedding he went away and
left her, without a word of explanation to
any one. So you see she is not above re-
proach. However, I don't care for that ;
but is n't it too tiresome, when I have done
so much for that young man, that he is so
ungrateful ? Just now, when I need him
to make my musical soirees attractive, he
keeps away, and nothing will induce him to
sing. It is always the way. I am so tired of
patronizing artists ; for as soon as they find
themselves in the position I have helped
them-to attain, they directly forget they owe
anything to me, and affect airs of indepen-
dence that are absolutely intolerable."

" But do you really think this girl is in
love with him ? "

" They say he is always with her. I know
no more than that ; but, for a certainty, no
well-bred young English lady should encour-
age her music-master, especially when he is
under the rigorous rules of a priest. And
that is not the worst ; his birth would surely
prevent any one from marrying him. You
have heard the story? Illegitimate, you
know, and a foundling."

Constance turned deadly pale and looked
imploringly at Madame Landel, while she
whispered, " Let us go, I can endure this no
longer."

, " It is impossible, my dear; we must not
leave Mrs. Tremaine. ' Attend to the music,
and do not listen to such ill-bred people,
, who ought to remember that some one be-
sides themselves may understand English."

Just then a celebrated pianist began
Beethoven's seventh symphony, and they
forgot their scandal to listen.

Guido met them in the dressing-room,
after the concert was over. A reception at
the Cardinal Catrucci's had prevented him
from coming before. He hurried forward to
assist Constance in putting on her cloak, but

she, without looking at him, turned toward
Mr. Carnegie. At that moment the fat and the
thin woman entered the room. Guido went
to speak with them, and Constance said to Mr.
Carnegie, as he put on her cloak, " Can you
tell me who that lady in the yellow satin is ? "

" O, that is Mrs. Parlby, the widow of a
Manchester cotton-merchant. She is very
rich, lives in a splendid palace, keeps liv-
eried servants, and is a powerful patroness
of Signer Guido. She is intensely vulgar.
Indeed, it is said she was one of the factory
spinners, whom the old merchant educated,
and then married. Whether that be true
or not, there is one thing certain, she is not
a lady ; and I would rather fall lace down-
ward into a nest of wasps than to incur her
dislike, for she stings without mercy."

"1 am sure she does," replied Constance,
" from some remarks I have just overheard.
But let us hurry. I do not wi:>h her to see
me in the company of Signor Bernardo."

She went home with a sick and weary
heart. When she reached her room, she
sat down to think over what she had heard.
And so her name was already coupled with
his. People had spoken lightly of her in
connection with this unfortunate young man.
Illegitimate! how terrible the word seemed
to her ! That accounted for the silence in
regard to his family and past history which
they had often noticed and spoken of. But
she could not blame him that he had never
told her. He had never tried lo win her
love. He had never by word professed any
attachment for her. It was true, during the
first days of their acquaintance, they had
been almost constantly together. And then
his looks; those thousand unspoken evi-
dences of affection ; and that day when he
had sheltered her from the storm, under his
mantle, that brief moment, could she
ever forget the tumultuous beating of his
heart ? The memory of it now maddened
her. Yes, he had loved her then. Suddenly
she understood it all, and something like a
thrill of joy shot through her heart. He
loved her, but the disgrace of his birth pre-
vented him from confessing his love. Poor,
brave, noble heart ! He was trying, by
coldness and indifference, to deceive him-
self and her. That explained his sadness,
his sudden change of manner. " Poor soul ! "
she murmured, " poor, sad, unhappy heart !
why has fate placed such barriers between
us ? O, if it were but anything else,
poverty or humble lineage ! But this is im-
possible ; I must forget him. It is madness to
think of him. It is useless for me to dream
of happiness, 1 am never to be happy."

Then the memory of that dull September
day crossed her heart with a pang. " So
the world knows that secret of my life ; and
how charitable it is in the construction it
puts upon our separation ! It is well ; God

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

knows all, and judges us more mercifully
than our fellow-creatures. I thought then
the wound' I had received would never heal.
But it has healed ; and this will too, I sup-
pose, if I can only wait. But I am so tired,
in fact, I have been tired all my life. O
dear, darling papa, why did you not take me
with you ? "

And a burst of bitter, passionate weeping
soothed her somewhat, after which she
prayed for herself, but more earnestly for
him, that God might make him happy,
adding the thought, " Poor darling ! how he
has suffered ! O, if anything had parted us
but this terrible circumstance of his birth,
how soon would I put aside all other ob-
stacles and become his wife, if he wished it !
I know he loves me ; yes, I am sure he loves
me in spite of all." And with this thought
in her heart she fell into a peaceful sleep,
and dreamed that she stood on one of the
terraces of Helmsford looking out toward
the sea. The sun shone, the birds sang,
and Guido was by her side, no longer sad
and solemn, but so glad and happy. And
then she knew she was his wife, and they
were to be parted no more forever.

She awoke with a feeling of deep hap-
piness nestling like a tender bird in her
bosom. And happiness is often as rest-
less as sorrow. She could not sleep, so
she arose and looked at her watch. It was
two o'clock. She opened the curtains and
stood in the window. The night was clear
and warm. Diana was dreaming in rap-
ture on the distant hills ; the breeze just
stirred the leaves of the orange-trees ; and
the oleander-blossoms trembled and shivered
as though a spirit had passed over them
in its silent flight to the serene heavens.
The water of the fountain fell with a monot-
onous and gentle murmur into the marble
basin below, and a lone cricket chirped in
the wall. All was silence and repose.

She threw a dressing-gown around her,
and stepped out upon the balcony, where
she could see on the opposite side of the
court the window of Guido's room. " I
wonder if he sleeps," she thought, as she
walked forward.

But, much to her surprise, the curtains
were open, and a faint light streamed over
the vines and flowers that adorned his bal-
cony. " He cannot sleep, he is studying or
writing " : and she leaned softly forward,
that she might look into his chamber.

Before an antique reading-desk, on which
lay open an ancient illuminated missal,
knelt Guido. His long black robes fell
around him, his hands were clasped on the
book, and his cheek rested on his folded
hand-. His eyes were closed, but his face
was turned toward the pictured Madonna
that smiled upon him from the wall ; and
the light from a waxen taper that burned

above fell full upon his pale forehead. He
was either in silent motionless prayer, or,
worn out and exhausted by his conflict-
ing feelings, had fallen into a heavy slum-
ber.

Was he praying, or was he sleeping ?
She could not determine. But &he felt, as
she stole back to her room, that he only-
needed the aureole above his brow, to look
like a saint.

" Dear angel," she said, half weeping ;
" a little while the thorns, the bleeding feet,
the aching heart, and then God, I trust, will
give us both eternal peace."

The next morning, at the breakfast-table,
a note was handed to Constance. She
opened it. It was dated Hotel de Home,
and was from Lady Dinsmore. She wrote :
" We arrived late last night, and are too
tired to go out to-day. Will you come to
us directly ? "

An hour later Constance and Madame
Landel were shown into the private parlor
of Lady Dinsmore, who entered in a few
moments, followed by a fair delicate girl of
seventeen. She took Constance in her
arms and kisFed her tenderly, and then pre-
sented her daughter, whom she called Flor-
ence. " I hope you will like each other,
and become fast friends." Then, taking
a seat on the sofa near Madame Landel,
she began an earnest conversation with
her, leaving the young ladies to make the
acquaintance of each other. But while
Constance listened to the somewhat uninter-
! esting account of Miss Dinsmore's journey
i from London to Paris and from Paris to
Borne, her eyes were reading the face of
her father's friend. She was not old, cer-
tainly not over forty- five : rather thin and
slight, brown hair a little streaked with
gray, low full forehead, soft blue eyes,
straight nose, and rather thin lips, droop-
ing at the corners in sorrowful curves.
She must have been very lovely in her
early youth, for she was lovely now. It
was a face that one could not see and pass
without turning for another glance, calm,
gentle, sweet ; that transient, undefinable
shade of sorrow, like the silvery haze that
softens the beauty of a summer sunset ;
something that told you she had drunk
deeply of the brimming cup of joy and love,
as well as the bitter draught that so often
follows.

There are some faces which plainly show
that a tragedy has formed some part of their
experience, and although we have not r ad
the argument, it is not difficult to determine
something of the plot by the actors that
pass over the scene. In some eyes the fires
of passion seem forever burned out, and
one can judge something of their intensify
by the ruin and ravage that is left. In
others, desire and joy are gone forever, but

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

hope and faith still remain. They live on
the past, on sweet memories that they nour-
ish ;viid keep green with secret, silent tears ;
or they look forward with patient, unques-
tioning trust to the union that shall be eter-
nal. Such faces bear the impress of the
thoughts and feelings that have swept over
them! Such eyes look through misty tears
beyond the veil into the beautiful unseen.
Such natures never grow old or hard, but
are always gentle, pitiful, and charitable.

Such a character was Lady Dinsmore.
No one knew her who did not love her. Her
daughter worshipped her as something be-
yond frail, feeble humanity. Her servants,
her poor dependants, her friends, even her
ordinary acquaintances, found in her a com-
bination of perfections seldom united in the
same person. Some refining process had
taken place in a character naturally noble
and beautiful ; and Constance, as she studied
her face, knew that behind that placid ex-
terior was hidden the history of a life.
What was it ? The same old story that has
known no change since the birth of time.

Constance longed for her confidence and
love, and for a moment almost envied the
girl at her side the possession of such a
mother. And Lady Dinsmore, while she
had been talking with Madame Landel, had
also been regarding Constance.

"I feel it a pleasure," she said, " as well
as a sacred duty I owe to her father, to take
her into my heart and love her as my own
child ; and I am sure her sweet face de-
clares her worthy the utmost affection."

" Yes," replied Madame Landel, " she is
indeed worthy your ladyship's esteem. I
have known her inmost life for eight years,
and I have learned how noble and beautiful
a nature she has. She has suffered much,
but so patiently and quietly that one can-
not but admire and respect her."

" Poor child ! and she is quite alone in the
world but for you. Her father was a man
of great discrimination, and his confidence
in you is justified by the fidelity with which
you Have discharged your duty. He was
fortunate, dear Madame, in finding such a
companion for his child."

" What I have doire, I have done for
love. She is very dear to me," replied
Madame Landel. " In the future I hope we
shall be much together, and I will try to
make her forget that she has never known a
mother's love."

From that day their friendship increased
rapidly. They naturally liked each other,
and the addition to their party of Lady
Dinsmore and her daughter was indeed
pleasant to all ; and, beside, Mr. Carnegie
was a very old friend of her family.

As soon as Lady Dinsmore had heard the
sad and strange history of Mrs. Tremaine,
and of her unhappy attachment to the

Prince Conti, she at once took her with
Constance under her especial protection,
and tried by every gentle and thoughtful
attention to teach her that there could be
other loves and hopes in life aside from that
absorbing passion. Not that Helen was
ever sad, gloomy, or complaining. No ; she
seemed to live in a sort of delusive happi-
ness, which she did not wish disturbed by
any reference to the future. Mr. Carnegie
seemed to have forgotten to be a lover. A
kind, thoughtful brother could not have
been more devoted than he. Sometimes
when he looked at her, as she leaned on the
arm of the Prince, and listened to his words
of flattering adoration, he would think sadly,
" Poor child ! if I could only save her from
the sorrow that must be hers in the future.
Can she not see that each day she passes
in the society of this weak, unprincipled
man adds another link to the chain that
binds her to him?"

From the night that Constance had over-
heard the conversation in the Sala di Dante
her manner had entirely changed toward
Guido. It was true she seldom saw him
now, except at her lessons ; and then she was
the dignified, attentive pupil, nothing
more. Those little half-confidences were
over. There were no more adoring glances
from the dark eyes of Guido, as he sang
with her sweet, impassioned romances ; no
more timid, trembling smiles from Con-
stance. She was grave, almost severe. If
her heart ached under the light grasp with
which she held it, she only increased the
pressure, because she felt she must then and
there crush that love, or later it would
crush her.

There were no more evenings passed to-
gether in sweet but dangerous dallying at
the piano, or with heads bent over some
Italian poem which too often expressed
their own tender love. For everything con-
nected with Guido seemed to her imagina-
tion poetry and music. The very words
of his beautiful language breathed passion.
The sound of his voice, the sweet, sad smile,
the tender melancholy nature, all made his
presence too dear and too seductive.

And Guido also knew and avoided the
danger he experienced in the presence of
this lovely, pure English girl, so different
from the dark, passionate beauty of his own
countrywomen. To him she was a saint, an
angel, something far above even his adoring
eyes. " Ah ! '' he sometimes thought, " she
cannot be mine on earth, but I will enshrine
her in my heart as Dante did his Beatrice,
as Petrarch his Laura, as Ta?so his Leonora,
and she shall be my only love. It is
better to worship her memory than to be the
idol of any other woman. Then, after a lit-
tle waiting, I shall see her forever in the
paradise of the free."

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

And so he lived, and worked, and sang,
and dreamed his sweet dream with smiling
lips and tearful eyes, and the world noticed
that there was a sweeter, more touching pa-
thos in his voice than ever before.

CHAPTER XXVI.

I SEEM TO HAVE HEARD THAT VOICE
BEFORE.

fJ^HE Christmas festivities had commenced,
JL and nearly every day Lady Dinsmore
and her daughter, accompanied by Con-
stance and ill's. Tremaine, were seen at the
ceremonies, concerts, and receptions. Ma-
dame L an del rarely went with them ; now
that she was no longer needed as chaperon,
she preferred remaining quietly at home.

To Florence Dinsmore the world was
new, bright, and beautiful, and her mother
rejoiced to see in the buoyant spirits of her
child signs of returning health. Although
her heart was not in any of the gay scenes,
she willingly made the sacrifice of inclina-
tion to increase the innocent happiness of
her daughter.

Constance, who studied closely every
change in the gentle i'ace of the lady, often
saw her eyes grow dreamy and tearful, and
a far-off expression, that seemed to look
into the past or future, would fall over her
like an impalpable veil, and she would be
oblivious of all around her. Then the girl
would gently lay her hand on hers, and
smile into her face a look of intelligence, as
though she understood her thoughts. Be-
tween them there seemed to be that tacit
sympathy, that deep comprehension, that
showed there was something akin in their
natures and experiences.

Often during some brilliant reception,
while Mrs. Tremaine, the Prince, Florence,
and Mr. Carnegie were dancing, laughing,
and talking together, Lady Dinsmore and
Constance would sit apart in a quiet
corner, absorbed in grave, and sometimes
sad conversation. There were times when
she desired to open her heart to her friend,
and tell her of this new trial, which, in spite
of every effort to lighten it, seemed to be
the heaviest she had ever endured. Do all
she would, distract herself with all the
interests of life, enter into the world with
a feverish eagerness, search ever after
some new enjoyment, yet amid all that love
haunted her, and filled every moment of
her life ( to the exclusion of duty and pleasure.
. Although she seldom saw Guido, yet she
heard him. In the morning, when she
awoke, his matins were the first sound that
fell upon her ear. In all the church cere-
monies he seemed to sin" alone to her.

How could she forget him, when she was
always under the influence of that wonderful
voice V She felt that distance was her only
hope, and sometimes she longed for her
quiet home and her far-oil' graves, that she
might kneel above the dust of her father, and
implore strength from Him who would know
and understand the sufferings of his child.

It was very evident to Lady Dinsmore,
that the Prince, in spite of his preii-rence
for Mrs. Tremaine, had placed his a.-piring
eyes on Florence as one of the richest
heiresses of England. From the first she
had shown no liking for, but rather an indif-
erence to him

" Does he dare think," said Lady Dins-
more, during a confidential chat with Con-
stance, " does he dare think I will give my
child to one whom I know to be mercenary
and unprincipled, and whose affections are
already bestowed upon another woman ? I
cannot understand Helen's infatuation for
that man. Truly he is as handsome as
Apollo, and of a most fascinating address;
but when she knows his love is not superior
to his avarice, how can she worship him as
she does ? If he were unselfish and coura-
geous, and did not fear to face poverty with
her, then I could understand her devotion;
but as it is, I cannot," and she sighed.
" What a mystery is the human heart ! My
child shall marry the man she loves if he
is worthy of her, no matter what his birth
or position may be. If he loves her, and is
good and noble, she shall be his wife."

' What," said Constance, with a lit tie
tremble in her voice, " if he was of lowly
birth, illegitimate, for example, would
you be willing then ? "

u I cannot tell," the replied ; " but I think
my child would scarcely love one who had
sprung from such an ignoble source."

Constance said no more, but her heart sank
heavily, and she thought, " Even she, so good
and charitable, and so much above the pre-
judices of the world, could not ignore that!"

It was Christmas day, and St. Peter's was
magnificent in commemoration of the birth
of the Prince of Glory. The imposing pro-
cession li ad passed'to the high altar, the
priests, the canons, the singers, the hi:-hops,
the cardinals, and then the Pope, borne
aloft on his gold and velvet throne, sur-
rounded by all the pomp and maje-ty of a
religion almost Pagan or Oriental in the
gorgeous forms of its ceremonies.

The ladies, in their black dres-es md
veils, Were seated in the tribune near the
choir. And Constance listened, unmindful
of all else, to the voice of (Juido, that TOM-.
and floated, clear and thrilling, and distinct
above the others, as they s:ing the sublime
anthem of praise, (ilurio I I >> !

She knew his voice so well that she could
distinguish it in its softest and most :

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

inflections. Indeed, she seemed to hear
that alone in all the variations of melody
that floated around her.

Suddenly Lady Dinsmore laid a hand on
her arm, and said in a choked whisper,
while her face was deadly pale, "I seem to
have heard that voice before. How strange-
ly familiar it is!"

" Which ? " inquired Constance, with a
faint flush, for to her there was but one
voice, yet she did not wish Lady Dinsmore
to know it.

" I cannot tell you, I do not hear it now ;
but it was wonderful, and so familiar, it re-
minded me of something heard long ago in
my youth."

Again the mist of tears dimmed her eyes,
and she fell into a deep revery.

Constance, who sat next her, watched
her closely, and she was sure she never once
glanced at the Pope, in his magnificent
robes and mitre, performing mass at the
high altar, surrounded by all the emblems
of that glorious day. Neither did she turn
her soft eyes toward the majestic dome with
its painted angels floating so far above, that
one almost fancies he is. looking through
a rent into heaven. Nor did she remark
all the vast, swaying, palpitating mass
before her. Only at the elevation of the
host, when all alike, impressed with the
solemnity of the scene, fell prostrate before
the Most High, Constance heard distinctly
below the thrilling strains of the silver
trumpets a choked, convulsive sob. Where
had the woman's soul strayed? What
memories had that voice awakened in her
heart ?

CHAPTER XXVII.

LADY DINSMORE AND THE MAESTRO.

" T HAVE taken tickets for the Braschi

J. ball on the 30th," said Lady Dinsmore
one day to Constance and Mrs. Tremaine,
who were sitting with her. "I supposed
you would both like to go, so I subscribed
for four tickets."

" O, thanks ! " cried Helen, eagerly. " I
am so glad. I did not dare hope for such a
pleasure, as Constance all the season has
resolutely set her face against balls, and it is
useless to expect Madame Landel to go with-
out her. So since Lady Charlotte went to
Naples I have been a prisoner."

" Indeed, I cannot go," said Constance,
sadly. " I have not the desire, and then I
cannot lay aside my mourning even for one
evening."

" My dear," replied Lady Dinsmore, " I
think you need have no scruples about it ;
it is to be a charity ball and concert together,
music first and dancing after. If you do

not wish to remain, we can leave when the
concert is finished."

" And so spoil my pleasure, you naughty
mamma," said Florence, pouting. " You
know I only care for the dancing."

" And I also," laughed Mrs. Tremaine.
" But Constance will find the music most
interesting, as I hear the Pope has given
Signer Guido permission to sing. The ob-
ject being to raise funds toward finishing
the new hospital, which is likely to be need-
ed, as there are rumors of political troubles
in this vicinity at no distant time."

" Who is Signor Guido ? " inquired Lady
Dinsmore.

" What ! have you not seen him ? He is
the most celebrated singer in Rome, the
first tenor of the Pope, and Constance's
master," with a sly smile. " If you had
been here a month or two ago you would
have seen him in some of your visits to us,
as he was almost always in our drawing-
room of an evening ; but now he has taken
a whim to stay away, and all my efforts to
induce him to come as usual are useless, he
will persist in being stubborn ! "

Constance changed the subject as quick-
ly as possible, by saying she would go, add-
ing some inquiries respecting her toilet for
the evening. Mrs. Tremaine, when once
launched upon the theme of dress, forgot her
teasing propensity, and Constance breathed
freely again.

The evening of the 30th came, and at nine
o'clock Lady Dinsmore and her daughter,
Constance and Mrs. Tremaine, alighted from
the carriage, and passed between the double
line of dragoons up the broad marble stair-
case of the grand entrance to the palazzo
Braschi.

Rare old tapestry hung on each side of
the lofty corridors, and the. regal apartments
were festooned with silk of every hue, bril-
liant with golden fringe and studded with
stars and emblems. Flowers bloomed in
marble vases ; statues of exquisite work-
manship supported antique candelabras,
from which sprang jets of light ; graceful
fountain?, surrounded by fragrant lilies
slumbering on beds of damp green moss,
threw up tiny streams, which fell with soft
liquid ripples into the marble basins; al-
coves filled with orange-trees, whose creamy
blossoms made the air heavy with delicious
odor. Strains of bewildering music rose
and fell on the perfumed air. Diamonds
sparkled on fair besoms and snowy brows,
pearls gleamed amid dark tresses, and
gems of the Orient flashed and scintillated,
half hidden in meshes of burnished gold.
The grand salon seemed a bed of rare
tropical flowers, bending and waving under
a breeze wafted from the rose-gardens of
Araby. Beauty, light, and laughter, waves
of lace and garlands of flowers, smiles on

WO VEX OF MANY THREADS.

faces that had always smiled, and lips that
had always uttered gay nothing.*, and
smiles alike on lips that had quivered but
a few hours before in grief and anguish or
uttered dark words of hate and revenge.
There the wife leaned with infinite sweet-
ness on dij arm of the husband she de-
tested, while she smiled in the face of the
lover she loved ; and the husband in his
heart longed to be by the side of a dark-
eyed beauty who received the ardent com-
pliments of a gay cavalier with evident
pleasure and satisfaction.

Mammas, stately in velvet and diamonds,
intrigued with proud delicacy to place in
the most noticeable positions their mar-
riageable (laughters. Young offshoots of
Roman nobility paid court to red hair and
freckles with wonderful assiduity, because
they were gilded by the filthy lucre made in
trade, which they affected to despise and dis-
dain ; n'importe, the gold would not soil
their white hands if it did bear the stain of
shops and mart?. It is safe- to say that the
greater part of the distinguished throng-
wore masks of smiles and robes of well-bred
politeness over deceit and hypocrisy.

Every eye was turned upon Lady Dins-
more as she entered, leaning on the arm
of Mr. Carnegie, followed by her daughter,
Constance, and Mrs. Tremaine. Murmurs
of admiration greeted them as they passed
up the long salon. Helen was most love-
ly in pale blue moire antique, her yellow
hair gleaming through the meshes of a gold
net, escaping here and there and falling in
waves of sunshine over her shoulders and
dress.

Constance, in plain white silk, without
ornament, her abundant dark hair simply
arranged, formed a striking contrast to
Helen. The one resembled a delicate steel
engraving, the other a glorious Watteau.
Florence was very sweet and innocent, in
tulle and rosebuds ; and Lady Dinsmore
more fair and delicate than ever, in laven-
der silk and black lace.

In a moment the Prince was at their side,
gay, animated, and handsome as the god
of beauty.

"You are just in time," he said; "the
curtain will rise in a moment, and Liszt
will play one of Beethoven's sonatas, and
afterwards Signor Guido will sing. See,
there are but five pieces on the programme,
all exquisite, and by first-rate artists ; so
we can have a little patience until the danc-
ing begins. Mrs. Tremaine, remember you
promised me the first waltz ; and Lady
Dinsmore, may I have the honor of Miss
Dinsmore's hand for the first quadrille 1 And
Miss Wilbreham, I hope also " " Thank
you, I do not dance," interrupted Con-
stance ; " I shall be only a spectator after
the music is finished."

A murmur ! A hush ! The green velvet
curtain is drawn aside?, and Liszt takes his
place at the piano. He regards the au-
dience long and steadily from under his
heavy brows, with cy; -s -r;;y, h;,rd, and al-
most metallic. He adju.-ts, wiili ;m impa-
tient twitch, his wristbands ; tLruv.'s Lack
his long iron-gray hair ; rai>es his thin lithe
hands above the keys. Then for a mo-
ment he seems to be invoking the aid of
some supernatural power ; for a strange ex-
pression passes over his face, something
inscrutable, mysterious. Then the hands
descend, and one forgets there is anvthing
mechanical in music ; they are inspired,
each finger seems a separate soul, and each
soul expresses itself with force ai.d j a^imi.
The metallic eyes light up. Fires of divine
genius burn under each cavernous brow.
The square, massive chin is thrust for-
ward. The flexible mouth quivers and
trembles. The Dantesque profile is more
clear and cutting in its outline. The broad
brow beams with a scrt of transparency.
The long locks dance and writhe. The
fingers fly and float from key to key. The
stern, sad face is transformed. The divinity
of genius has made sublime the human, and
for a moment the mantle has descended
from above and hidden the mortal.

It was the first time the ladies had heard
this great artist, and they listened spell-
bound. It seemed to Constance as though
every puke had ceased to beat, as she fol-
lowed him through all the intricacies of
sound, now high, now low ; now passion-
ate, thrilling, bewildering ; then hushing all
the senses into a silent rapture ;
wailing forth in strains of irresistible force,
bearing the longing soul into swift currents,
toward unknown seas.

O great composer, who hast touched
heights to others unattainable, in the calm
and silence of thy life, when earthly dis-
cords were forever shut out, thou hast hoard
the songs of angels, and hast embodied
thy tranced thoughts in notes that never
before fell on mortal ears ! O incompara-
ble artist, who hast so worthily rendi-ml
the inspiration of the sublime master, who
shall say that in thy inner and better life
there are no revelations from above, to
teach thee so to influence and subdue the
hearts of a multitude with thy divine mel-
ody ?

As he moved from the piano, little white
gloves were laid together in rapturous r.p-
plause ; and bright eyes welcomed him with
delight as he descended nmonir the au-
dience, bowing, smiling, and tulkiiur gayly
witlrall. Constance followed him with her
eyes, scarcely remembering that (luido was
to sing next, until Ilc-len touched lu-r arm
and said, " See, the conquering hero c<

A burst of welcome greeted him as he

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

walked across the stage to the piano. He
looked a little paler than usual, but rather
triumphant, as though he was aware he had
a place in the hearts of his compatriots
equal to the great artist who had preceded
him. He sang that exquisite canzonette of
Rolli, " Solitario loxco ombroso," that Raff
sanf more than a hundred years ago, on
that lovely moonlight night in the orange
garden of Naples, to the Princess Belmonte.
And Guido sang with the same pathos and
power of expression to one, and that one
was Constance. Although his eyes never
once turned upon her, she felt that each word
was addressed to her heart. She was ab-
sorbed, lost in the tender thoughts the song
inspired, when a low exclamation from
Florence startled her.

" O mamma ! what is it ? "

She looked at Lady Dinsmore ; her hands
were tightly clasped, her face deadly pale,
and her eyes fixed with a sort of stare on
Guido. ' " Are you ill, dear Lady Dins-
more ? 'J inquired Constance, anxiously.

" No, no ! " and she made a supreme
effort to compose herself; "but that song,
that voice, how strange ! Who is this young-
man ? " she said, in a hoarse, suppressed
whisper, grasping Constance's hand and
looking imploringly into her face.

" It is the singer of whom Mrs. Tremaine
spoke the other day, Signor Bernardo."

" Bernardo," she repeated, " Guido
Bernardo." And then, pressing her hand to
her eyes in a bewildered manner, she re-
mained a few moments as if in deep
thought, while Florence regarded her anx-
iously. When she looked up every sign of
emotion had passed from her face, and she
smiled as she said, " How foolish I am ! but
a strain of music, a passing resemblance, a
name that reminds me of a dear friend of
my youth, quite unnerve me."

At that moment Guido finished his song,
and stood bowing and smiling in acknowl-
edgment of the enthusiastic applause re-
peated again and again.

In a moment he was at the side of Con-
stance, flushed, happy, excited ; and as he
took her hand he said, " Were you pleased
with my song ? "

Unawares she let her heart look through
her eyes, as she replied, " O so much ! it
is a lovely composition, and you sang it
with expression and feeling."

" I sang it for you," he replied, with an
earnest look and a smile of deep tender-

" Thank you, I feel flattered," she re-
turned, coldly, for again the heart was
pressed down under the curb of pride.

Lady Dinsmore's eyes were fixed earnest-
ly on Guido while he spoke, and when he
turned suddenly at Constance's rep'y to ad-
dress some remarks to Mrs- Trernaine she

said, " Present this young man to me, my
dear, I wish to know him."

Constance introduced him, and Lady

| Dinsmore gave him her hand with more

| than her usual kindness, as she made room

| for him beside her, and entered at once into

an earnest conversation.

Constance had just taken the arm of a
most elegant guard "M nobile for a short
promenade during the pause in the music.
This young man had worshipped her at a
distance all the ?ea?on, but she had never
| so much as -encouraged him with a smile.
This evening, from some strange perversity,
she was most gracious.

Mrs. Tremaine was as usual engrossed
with the Prince, and Florence was listening
to one of Mr. Carnegie's quaint and amus-
ing criticisms on the society around them.
So no one observed the purport of Lady
Dinsmore's conversation with the maestro,
but they all remarked that he never left
her side for the evening. When they re-
turned home, at an early hour, he escorted
her to the carriage.

After the concert was finished, Lady
Dinsmore and Constance wished to leave at
once ; but Mrs. Tremaine and Florence en-
treated so earnestly for just two dances
that they agreed to remain a little longer.
They entered the brilliantly decorated ball-
room just as the band began a waltz
of Strauss. In a moment Mrs. Tre-
maine and the Prince, Florence and Mr.
Carnegie, were floating among the gay bub-
bles of fashion. Constance, leaning on the
arm of the young Marchese, made the tour
of the magnificent suite of rooms ; admired
the rare old pictures, china, and statuary.
More than once ehe passed the manufac-
turer's fat widow and her lean friend, who
were as busy as ever anatomizing somebody's
character.

Mrs. Parlby's red shoulders gushed out
of her yellow satin corsage, and her vul-
gar face was distressingly flushed, as she
watched Guido with Lady Dinsmore, who
seemed to monopolize him to the exclusion
of every other friend.

" I don't see that Signor Guido is very
empresse in his attentions to this girl,"
observed the long-nosed lady ; " he seems
rather to devote himself this evening to
Lady Dinsmore. What a delicate, refined-
looking woman she is ! "

There was a little malice in the remark,
for though outwardly the fat and thin
ladies were the best of friends, secretly
they hated each other, and one never let
an opportunity pass to give the tender feel-
ings of the other a sly stab. < I think you
said on the evening of the concert (hat Miss
Wilbreham was not of very good origin.
She surely must be, or Lady Dinsmore, a
daughter, as well as the wite, of a peer of

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

the realm, would not chaperon her into so-
ciety."

" O, that does not follow!" and Mrs.
Parlby gave her pug nose a more upward
in<f!in-Uion. " You know what her father,
Lord RadclifFe, was, not a faster man in
the United Kingdom." Then she added,
in a lower and more confidential voice,
with many mysterious grimaces, " I have
heard even hints of some cxrdjitnl,' in her
youth, and I know it was said at the time
of her marriage that there must have been
sonu'llung wrong to induce a young and
pretty woman, and rich as she was, to j
many old Lord Dinsmore, three times her
age, 1 believe. However it is certain she
can't be very particular in her moral?, or
she n.'.ver wjuld allow her daughter to be
always in ths society of that improper Mrs.
Tremaino and Conti, who every one knows
is a libertine ! "

" Conti a libertine ! Why, my dear Mrs.
Parlby, don't you know it was generally
believed you were most anxious to marry
him to your niece last season, only the
settlements were not sufficient to purchase
the title, even with your dot ? "

" Marry him to my nief e ! I would rath-
er give her to an African." And her red
face grew a shade redder with mortification,
as she repeated, " What a falsehood ! Soci-
ety ought to b3 punished for circulating un-
truths."

" O, my dear, remember / don't say it was
so ; I only say every one thought so." And
the thin creature gave a malicious chuckle
as she glanced obliquely at her fat friend to
see the result of her stab.

Just at that moment an exquisitely lovely
lady, very de'collete'e, passed, leaning on the
arm of a Zouave officer.

" Ah, there is the MnrcTiesa and her lover,
as usual. II w can her husband support
such an open intrigue ! He mn*t\>Q a fool or
blind. But ih ;y do say his is a little touched
here," and the speaker tapped her forehead
significantly ; " wine and women, you know.
But have you heard the last story of the
Marches? It is rich, I can assure you."

" No, what is it 1 Do tell me." And the
long nose quivered with eagerness, like a
hungry dog's at the sight of a dainty bit of
meat.

" Well, th'3 other night, at tho ball of the

Frenah Ambassador, she gave her fan to

the youn r Viscount Ls Carnic to hold while

she danced with DL % Liborde. The foolish,

awkward fellow dropped it, and, hnppily for

the Kfarchesa, broke it. When tho waltz

was finished he gave it to her, with many

"us and regrets for his i/n:if/n-r!f .

Whsranpon the lovely angel turned red

v:i:h r:i ;cr, declaring it was an antique

i i (Irvisand francs, and he had ruined

it. The Viscount turned pale with mortifi-

cation, but immediately, with more pride
than delicacy, drew out his pocket-book, and
laid a thousand-franc bill in her hand. She
instantly threw it in his face, stamped her
little foot with rage, demanded of De La-
borde how he could see her so intuited, and
then, bursting into tears of airjvr, she ap-
pealed to her husband, who at that moment
appeared on the scene. The next day there
was a challenge, but no duel followed, as it
is said the Mari-!,i-.<c arr.inaed it with the
Viscount, by borrowing a hundred thousand
francs, which the victim was only t^o glad
to lend, to get out of the scrape. A few
evenings after this they were all together at
the opera, as friendly as ever."

" Well, that is about a fair sample of the
conduct of half the people who go into re-
spectable society," remarked the listener, in
an acid voice. " What protection can we
who are proper have from euch impos-
ture t "

" Look ! they arc leaving," exclaimed
Mrs. Parlby, as Lady Dinsmore, leaning on
the arm of Guido, and followed by the oth-
ers of her party, lefl the ball-room.

" Have you ever seen anything so cool?
That impertinent Bernardo has never been
near me this evening. He quite forgets all
I have done for him, and runs after titles.
Well, he will get no more invitations to my
dinners."

"And you will get no more music, my
dear, nor the society of the Earl of Cross-
lands, who says, with all due dif -rence to
your good dinners, he only accepts your in-
vitations to hear Signer Guido sin - after-
wards. So it does not pay to cut off your
own nose."

Mrs. Parlby winced, turned her back on
her friend, and walked away in a towering
passion, half doubting the sincerity of her
devoted hanger-on, who wns poor and lived
in a little apartment, and liked to share her
carriage and eat her good dinners.

" I believe she only pretends thi< friend-
ship for what she gets out of me," was her
conclusion, more truthful than elegant.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ONLY A LITTLF, MAUBLi: CKOSS.

FROM the evening of Guide's introduc-
tii n to Ladv Diiir-morc then- seemed to
exist between them n stron? fri- nd-hr>. He
was an almost con.-tant visitor :'t lier hotel,
and in all their drives and exenr-ions oc-
cupied a seat in her , Florence
;i.nl hi', too, seemed net arewe i<> e;Hi oth-
ci's society. She commanded, ad vi.-ed, pet-
ted, and blamed him, much as she would

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS

have done a brother. It was always Guido
who must be consulted if any plan of amuse-
ment was proposed. And she would say,
with an ah- of importance, " You know
it is no use to decide until we have asked
Signer Guido whether he will accompany
us."

She had little talent for music, and a
rather weak voice ; but she was so anxious
to sing, that with constant practice and the
greatest patience on the part of Guido, she
was becoming a tolerably fair musician, and
Lady Dinsmore seemed to favor their grow-
ing interest and affection for each other.
Constance was secretly glad of this intimacy,
although it sometimes cost her a pang ; she
feared Guido might learn to love, with a
deeper feeling than friendship, the gentle
oirl whose charms were so constantly before
him. Still there was a freedom and frank-
ness in their preference, a brotherly and sis-
terly sort of manner, very different from the
shy expressions of love.

"I wonder if Lady Dinsmore knows the
secret of his birth," she often thought.

One day, when they were speaking of
Guido, her mind was set at rest on that
subject by Lady Dinsmore herself, who
said, " It is unaccountable the interest I feel
in this young man. How I should like to know
the history of his life ! I have tried, but in
vain, to induce him to speak of his past.
It is a subject evidently painful to him, and
which he always avoids. Has he ever
spoken of himself to you, my dear ? "

" Never," replied Constance, " but once,
and then he said he had not a relation in
the world that he knew of."

" How strange ! " replied Lady Dinsmore,
musingly. And then Constance changed
the conversation. She could not bring her-
self to repeat the vulgar gossip she had heard
from Mrs. Parlby on the night of the concert.

One morning Lady Dinsmore ordered the
carriage and went out alone, after telling
Florence that if Constance and Mrs. Tre-
maine called for her she might drive with
them, as she should be absent some time.
She ordered her footman to stop at the near-
est flower-shop, and there she selected an
exquisite wreath of white lilies and purple
campanula.

" Drive to the Campo Santo," she said, in
a quivering voice, as the servant laid it on
the empty seat of the carriage.

When she reached the gate she alighted,
and, after exchanging a few words with the
custodian, she desired the servants to re-
main until she returned. Taking the wreath
in her hand, she crossed the large square,
with a slow, weary step, toward the chapel,
and passed into the cemetery alone. She
stood for a moment, looking around with a
bewildered, undecided air, and then said,
" How all is changed here ! But it must

be on this side ; yes, I am sure it is on this
side, near that tall cypress."

She threaded her way among the little
black wooden crosses, decorated with faded
garlands and the many tawdry offerings of
the poor to their cherished dead, never stop-
ping until she reached the foot of the tall
cypress, near which was the object of her
search. Was it a stately monument ? No ;
only a little cross, a nameless little marble
cross, over a child's grave.

She fell on her knees before it, and, bury-
ing her face in her hand?, sobbed audibly.
She remained a long time in that position,
even after her moans of grief had died away
into silence. Then, gathering some wild-
flowers and tangled vine from the little
mound, she pressed them over and over to
her lips, murmuring all the while, " O my
darling, my darling, have you grown weary
with waiting for me ? But patience ! I shall
come to you soon." She laid the garland
on the little grave, and, placing a few of
the wild-flowers in her bosom, stooped and
kissed the sod as tenderly as though it were
confcious of her love and sorrow. Then
she arose and walked slowly away, looking
worn and weary, ut still pausing often to
cast a lingering glance at the little cross
glistening in the sunlight.

When Florence returned from her drive
she found her mother lying on the sofa in
her room, the blinds closed, and a handker-
chief, wet with aromatic vinegar, bound over
her temples.

" Are you ill, darling ? " inquired the
affectionate girl, as she knelt by her side
and kissed her tenderly.

Lady Dinsmore drew her daughter to her
almost convulsively, and, laying her hand
on her shoulder, replied, " Not really ill,
my dear, only tired and nervous ; but leave
me alone. I am better alone."

As Florence softly closed the door she
said to herself, "What can be the matter
with this darling mamma ? She has seemed
a little strange ever since she came to
Italy."

One evening Mrs. Tremaine and Con-
stance were walking back and forth in the
moonlight on the balcony, engaged in a con-
fidential chat, when Florence burst out upon
them. ,

" Mamma is in the drawing-room with
Signer Guido and Mr. Carnegie ; we are
on our way to the Coliseum, and have
called for you to accompany us."

" O, how delightful ! " exclaimed Helen ;
" but you must wait until the Prince comes.
I told him I should be at home this evening.
However, he will he very glad to make one
of the party, and the more (he merrier ! "

" O, there is plenty of time ! " replied Flor-
ence ; " the view is the finest when the
moon is at a certain height."

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

They all entered the drawing-room to-
gether. Constance had not seen Guido since
the night of the ball, as, for some reason,
he had asked to be excused from giving her
a lesson on the usual day. When she looked
at him she was startled by the change in
his face. He was paler than ever before ;
his eyelids red and swollen, as though with
sleepless nights and weeping, and there was
such an expression of subdued sorrow around
his mouth that her heart ached for him.
She spoke gently, asking him if he were ill,
that he hail omitted her lesson the day
before.

His face lighted up a little, and he
replied, " No, not ill exactly, only a little
weak and tired. In fact," he said, lowering
his voice, " I thought it was better not to
come yesterday."

Poor Guido ! he was suffering the pangs
and. torments of jealousy. Since the night
of the ball he had scarcely eaten or slept ;
and all because Constance had smiled on the
iju'inlia no'jile. If she had known the cause
of his sadness, her heart would have ached
less, and she would not have made herself
miserable with wondering what could ail him.

A half-hour afterward, the Prince came,
and they started for the Coliseum. It was one
of those nights too exquisite to describe ;
a full moon rode in splendor through the un-
clouded heavens ; and as they entered the
vast and gloomy ruin, they were all impressed
with its majesty as they had never been
before.

They sat down on the steps that lead to
the cross which Christianity has erected in
the broad arena, to mark the spot where
her noble champions perished nearly two
thousand years ago. Then the moon did
not knk down on rent and ruin, darkness
and silence ; but the yellow sun glared all
day over the wild, restless Roman populace,
unawed by the gorgeous splendor of the
court, and untouched by the agony of the
quivering lip, the ghastly brow, and writhing
limbs of the dying martyr.

Guido and the Prince knelt to kiss the
cross, as is the custom, hoping thereby to
gain an indulgence ; while the others, not
quite understanding the motive that prompt-
ed them, did the same ; perhaps each felt
it not inappropriate to offer that mark of
reverence to the emblem of the Christian
religion.

As Constance arose from her knees she
met the eyes of Guido fixed upon her with
a strange earnestness, but suddenly, with a
sigh, he turned away, and walked by the
side of Florence.

They found a guide with a flaming torch,
who conducted them through the gloomy
vaulted corridors to the upper pnrap<'t.

" What a ghostly place ! " said Lady Dins-
more, who with Madame Landel and Mr.

Carnegie followed the guide, while Florence
walked behind with Guido. Constance
was with Mrs. Tremaine and the Prince.
She was pale and silent, and her eyes
scarcely left the two who were in advance
of her. She heard Florence say, " I am
afraid here, it is so dark and mysterious";
and, like a timid child, she slipped her hand
into Guide's, who drew it through his arm
! with a smile of deep tenderness, saying,
| " Do not fear, I will protect you against
I every evil that haunts these silent chambers ;
they are not real, they are only imaginary,
and my courage is equal to a host of such
adversaries."

Florence smiled confidingly as she clung
to him, and Constance's heart beat heavily
as she thought, " I have been mistaken, it
is she he loves. How foolish I have been to
imagine he cared for me ! "

When they had passed through the
; damp gloomy galleries lighted only by
| the red glare of the torch, and came out
! suddenly on to the moonlit terrace, all ex-
claimed involuntarily, " How lovely ! " For
I beneath them lay Rome, ancient and
modern, bathed in a flood of silvery
light, the harsh rugged outlines softened
and blended. The dusty red tiles and
gray time-stained walls, touched by the
mystic white beams, seemed a city of marble
palaces. Far away the outline of the Al-
ban and Sabine mountains rose dark and
solemn against the clear sky. The low
level sweep of the camparjna was dotted here
; and there with dark masses of ruins ; and the
long line of crumbling aqueducts wound
like a funeral procession, the first hooded
mourners gliding from the sight into dis-
tance and darkness. Tall cypresses stood
like grim sentinels over the tombs of the
dead kings, and a hoary pine raised its
crowned head until it seemed to touch the
limpid sky. From the orange-trees and
acacias that wave among the ruined pala-
ces of the Caesars came the long, mournful
hoot of the owl mingled with the s\vcct,
thrilling strain of the nightingale. In the
arena below, the moonlight glistened on the
steel helmets and pikes of the motionless
sentinels. And the people, walking back
and forth, or kneeling at the foot of the
cross, looked like puppets performing a
pantomime. The long trailing vines and
branches in the broken arches waved and
beckoned like phantom arms from the dis-
tance.

" Will you not sing, Signer Guido ? "
exclaimed Florence.

" Yes, do sing something for us," added
Lady Dinsmore ; " pathetic music would be
so effective now."

" Do not let it be sad," said Constance ;
" let it be triumphant, a Laudate Domir
num, for example.*"

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

" Or go down into one of those subter-
ranean vaults and sing a De Profuudi.-;"
laughed Mrs. Tremaine.

" No," said Guido, " I will go up nearer
heaven and chant a Jubilate Deo ! "

He turned away, and in a moment ap-
peared on the upper parapet, where he
stood, his tall, dark-robed figure clearly
outlined against the deep blue of the sky.
Waving his hand to them, his glorious voice
broke forth in the sublime Cantate Domino
of Cherubmi. As the deep thrilling tones
fell on their ears they could distinctly hear
the exulting words, " With his "own right
hand and his holy arm hath he gotten him-
self the victory."

It seemed as though the triumphant
spirit of some young martyr had returned
for a moment to review the scene cf his
earthly passion and suffering, and was again
repeating to the listening angels the story
of his conquest over sin and death.

Lady Dinsmcre fell pn her knees, and,
covering her face with her hands, wept
silently. The others stocd with towed
heads and subdued hearts, listening intently
until the last tones died away into the still
air.

The emotion that Constance experienced
was so overpowering that she felt the need
of being alone fcr a ic-w moments. Turning
away, she walked to the end of the terrace,
and, stepping into an interior arch, fhe sat
down on a broken column, and fell into a
deep revery.

First, there passed before her mental
vision a long procession of captives, with
gloomy brows and compressed lips, the fires
of hate and scorn burning under their down-
cast lids, their hands fettered, their heads
bent on their laboring breasts, and their
hearts filled with the anguished meir.cry cf
the free, glad life on the Judeean hills and
amid the green groves of Olivet. Then a
vast multitude, naked, emaciated, worn
with fever and famine, scorched with the ;
burning sun, toiling under the cruel lash of j
a taskmaster, and longing ever with irre- j
pressible desire for one cooling draught of j
the limpid stream that rippled through the
vale of Kedrcn. The old man with the
hoary beard on his breast had been a pa-
triarch in those days; and the youth with
the form like Apollo had sat at his feet,
and listened to his teaching. Now, chained
together, they were hewers of stone under
a foreign sky, slaves to the proud Emperor
Flavius, who sat in his golden palace
overlooking the vast arena where they
toiled and languished. But see ! the old
man sinks under his labor; his limbs refuse
to bear the weary body ; the day is nearly |
done, and his task unfinished. He tries to
struggle to his feet ; the terrible fear of the
torture, and the wild beasts, with gleaming

teeth and bloody fangs, urge him to one
more effort. Suddenly before him appears
a youth clad in the rich robes of a lloman
noble, with the signet of his birth upon his
white hand. " Rest, father, rest," he says,
" and I will labor and complete thy task.''

Then the shout arises on the hot air,
" Behold the Christian ! take him, and bind
him, and plunge him into the darkest cave."
" Wait," cries the youth, with divine en-
thusiasm beaming from his brow ; " wait
until 1 have completed the old man's task,
and then thou shalt do with me as thou
wilt. It is true I am a Christian, and I am
ready to die fcr my faith."
It is high neon, and the sun locks down
on the proudest pile ever raised by human
ambition and dedicated to tcrture and crime.
In tl:e j^rand Pcdium sits the Emperor, sur-;
rcunded by his ccurt, in all the pcmp and
magnificence of that pericd. Above and
below are a vast crowd, with eager, excited
faces ; the wild beasts in Ihtir der.s, waiting
fcr their prey, sre cot mere cruel and fero-
cious. Ihe sweetest pleasure to them is to
beheld the ccmbat, the peril, the incertitude
cf tie struggle. the bleed, the aicny, and
(he death. A wild joy spaikles in each eye.
Eager, palpitating, impatient, they leek to-
ward the grating that ccnfnes the savage
panther, as if they tco wculd drirk the LIce.d
so tccn to redden the arena. Suddenly there
is a crash cf music and a shout like the
vcice cf many waters.

"Beheld him who.ccmes to die!" A
youth beautiful as the sun cf the mcrning ;
en his lip is a sn:i!e of eternal peace, and
his brow beaming with the lijht of divine
enthusiasm. He locks far bey end; he ;ccs
net the clamorous multitude ; he bears not
their cries, nor the roar cf the wild beast
that springs upon him. No ; fcr tLe soul is
so rapt in the vision cf heaven that he
seems to have left the pain of death far be-
hind. A mcment of ageny, a brief struggle,
and all is over. The bcely cf the ycung
martyr is thrust into the ^j.aiiai'iiii:, and cne
more name is added to the Icng list of
those who have come cut cf gn.at tribu-
lation.

And to the scenes enacted there for the
gratification of a depraved and licentious
monarch followed the contrast of the pres-
ent. A rude wooden cress erected over the
spot that had been bathed in the blocd of
its defenders, a prccessicn of barefooted
Capuchin monks, followed by a few pale,
sad Sisters of Charity, paupers, ard stran-
gers, is all the ceremony that tells cf its dedi-
cation to the Prince of peace.

Such were the thoughts that ]
through the mind of Constance while sl.e sat
there, too absorbed to notice that the vciccs
near her had ceased, and that s-he was alone.

Suddenly she started up and turned to-

WOVEX OF MANY THREADS.

ward the spot where she had left her friends ;
but they were gone, and not a person was
on the terraces, above or below. She
called, but no one replied. " They have
gone," she thought ; " they have forgotten
me, or they think I am with Mrs. Tremaine
and the Prince, who are always behind the
othars. I must remain here alone, or I must
go through those terrible galleries until I
reach the door by which we entered. There
I can perhaps make the sentinels hear me."
Still she shuddered and shrank from de-
scending the long flights of broken steps
that led to the dark caves. But she was not
a coward, and the necessity was great ; so
she nerved herself to the trial, and went
down into the mysterious darkness below,
She hurried along a few paces, the silence
broken only by the unearthly echoes of her
light foDtsteps. The dense darkness, peo-
pled with imaginary horrors, appalled her.
She felt she could go no farther, and turned
to regain the steps by which she had de-
scended ; but in her fright and confusion she
went in the wrong direction, and, after grop-
ing a few moments helplessly in the dark,
she was convinced that she was indeed lost.
" If they return for me now, they will never
find me, for my cries will never penetrate
beyond those thick walls, and I cannot hear
them if they call me. O my God, I shall go
mad if I have to remain here until morning ! "
She thought of all the dark stories she had
hear.l, of these caves being the haunts of rob-
bers and assassins. From all the black vaults
a thousand shadowy forms seemed to start, a
thousand unearthly voices seemed to sound
in her eavs, and a thousand mysterious foot-
steps seemed to hasten toward her. She
covered her face, and leaned half fainting
against the damp stona of the cave, praying
and weeping convulsively. Suddenly she
knew she heard real footsteps, and the quick
breathing of some one hastening toward her.
A moment more, with a cry of relief and
joy, unconscious of what she was doing, she
threw herself on the breast of Guido.

" Thank God that I have found you ! " he
said, pressing her to his heart and kissing
her tearful eyes and quivering lips over and
over. She was weeping and trembling in
his arms like a terrified child, and there in
the gloom and darkness he wiped away her
tears, and soothed her with every loving,
tender word his gentle heart dictated.

When she was calmer he said,' li Come dar-
ling, let us hasten to Lady Dinsmore ; she is
in a terrible sta'e of anxiety ; we thought
you were with Mrs. Tremaine and the Prince
until we all reached the carriage, then we
missed you for the first time. The thought
occurred to me, while the guide and Mr.
Carnegie went in another direction, that
you might be at the other end of the ter-
race, and so I was hastening thers. I can-

not tell you what I suffered," he said, as
they came out into the moonlight. " I
feared you might have fallen down some of
those dark holes, or that the edge of the
crumbling walls had given way under your
feet. Let me look at you for a moment, to
assure myself that you are not hurt." Tak-
ing her hands in his, and press-ing them to
his heart, he gazed long and tenderly into
her face with an expression she never forgot,
saying earnestly, " Thank God ! you are
safe"; then, drawing her arm through hi.-,
he gently led her down the long steps and
through the silent galleries out into the calm
night, under the stars and the glorious moon.

The ladies were sitting in the carriage,
waiting anxiously. Alter many questions
and explanations, Guido went in search of
Mr. Carnegie and the Prince, and as they
drove away the bells rang out the hour of
midnight.

" What an adventure ! " said Florence. " I
am sure you rather liked it; you look as
calm and composed as though we had not
been suffering the most excruciating anguish
for the last hour."

Constance assured them she was dread-
fully frightened at the time, but as it was
over, and she was safe, she did not feel in-
clined to be miserable at the remembrance.
On the contrary, although she did not ex-
press it, she felt rather happy ; for she still
seemed to feel the tender kisses of Guido on
her lips and eyes. But before she reached
home, a feeling of mingled uncertainty and
anger took possession of her. He could not
love her, for even in that moment of joy,
when he had pressed her to his heart and
kissed her, he had not told her so ; no, no,
he could not love her, or he would have told
her, and yet he had dared to kiss her. Her
cheek burned with indignation, and she re-
solved to surround herself with a colder
mantle of pride than ever.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE TIDE THAT BEARS US ON.

nPHE current that bears us on whether we
JL will or not, that irresistibly lom-s us
down the stream of time to the broad ex-
panse of unexplored seas, oi'ten wrenches
from our unwilling hands the gods we have
clasped with fondest idolatry, and tears
from our ruined lives the hours we hava
worshipped, yet only half enjoyed, because,
we have felt they were pas.-ing awa\ for-
ever. Often when the storms of pas>ion
and anguish tear and shiver our souls, like
frail boats in a tempest, we look ihr be-
yond where we see a calm and smiling
haven which we fain would reach, and long

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

for the moments to pass which bear us on-
ward too slowly for our impatient souls.
But sometimes the waves go in before us,
and our trail harks are shattered on the in-
hospitable shores. Then we look back and
wonder why Ave had longed to leave the
sale! v of the broad seas. Again we stand
shrinking and trembling under the shade
of the green trees of life, looking over a
wide desert before us. The sun scorches ;
the sand is hot and dry ; there is no shadow
of a great rock, no feathery palms, no green
oasis. We dread to leave the cooling shade ;
the music of the rippling stream sounds in
our ears ; the fragrant vines caress us, and
the soft breeze and the singing birds woo
us to remain. Yet; pilgrim like, we set forth,
leaning on our staff, with aching heart and
many longing looks behind. Perchance
beyond the arid expanse may be other val-
leys as still and fair that we know not of;
but yet our souls desire what we have left.
No streams can be so sweet as those at
which we have drank, no shade so refresh-
ing as that which has sheltered us ; no
music like the birds that sang in the
boughs, no fragrant flowers like those that
have bent beneath our caressing hand. We
have rested on the breast of Love, and he
has fanned us with his wings until the
faint spark has kindled to a divine flame,
which burns and consumes long after we
have lost sight of the glowing vision ; and
our worn and weary companions seem but
beasts of burden after we have feasted with
the gods. O unquiet heart, longing and thirst-
ing, knowest thou not there is a paradise for
thee, fairer than the Eden thou hast left ?

One day Mrs. Tremaine stood on the
balcony, leaning her elbows on the stone
balustrade, and resting her chin on her
open palm. Before 'her lay the sunlit ter-
races of the Fincio, and over all beamed a
blue and cloudless sky. Yet she noticed
nothing of the beauty around her, for her
eyes were fixed on vacancy, and her lips
compressed as though she were absorbed in
deep and painful thought.

" What are you dreaming of, Helen ? "

She started and turned. Mr. Carnegie
stood at her side. Holding out her hand,
the sad look passed away from her face, and
she said, smiling, '' I was wondering if those
white pigeons lying on yonder roof in the
sun were not happier than I."

" What ! are you not happy ? " he in-
quired anxiously, as he drew her arm
through his, pacing slowly back and forth.

" No," she replied, looking him steadily
in the face, while the tears filled her eyes,
" no, I am very miserable."

" Poor child ! Is it possible ? I thought
you were happy. I would give ten years of
my life to save you one hour's sorrow," he
said, with deep feeling.

" Truly ? do you love me so deeply ? "

" Yes."

She looked into his face searchingly, and
then said, in a weary voice, " I am so glad
to know that you really love me. It will be
a grea* comfort to me later; the time is
coining when I shall need a strong, true love
like yours to help me bear the burden of
life."

" Why do you speak so despondingly ?
What do you foresee ? "

She pointed upward. " Look at that little
cloud. It is very small and light, but hidden
in it are thunderbolts ; it will spread and
grow black and lurid, and cover all the
smiling heavens. Then the tempest will
burst ; but you will be my refuge, my shelter,
will you not?" and she clung to him as
though she already needed his protection
against some real danger.

" Yes," he said, earnestly, " while my life
lasts it is yours; only give me the right,
Helen, only give me the right."

" Hush ! " she said, while a gleam of anger
shot from her blue eyes ; " do not speak of
that, do not repeat the old story again.
Remember what you promised me in Paris,"
and, turning from him, she went hastily into
the house.

Mr. Carnegie stood a long time lost in sad
thought, wondering how this would all end.
At last he said softly to himself, " I will
never speak of it again to her, but I shall
always love her the same. My heart is full
of the same infinite love and tenderness,
and I can wait. Poor child ! she is suffering
now, and she does not understand her own
heart; I will not annoy her by speaking
of it again. By and by, when she is cured
of this misplaced attachment, she will turn
to my heart for a refuge, as she has said
herself, and then she will prove the strength
and unselfishness of a true love. Yes, I can
wait."

Poor man ! he fed his hungry heart with
chafF. He had yet to learn that when the
soul has once been touched with the di-
vine flame, like Orpheus it will follow its
Eurydice even into the Stygian realm, and
if the cruel Fates forbid their union, it will
sit pining apart, singing its complain! s to
dumb nature, which is often more, sym-
pathizing than the dull cold heart of man.
No other love will fill the void ; no other
can hold intercourse with the lonely, isolated
soul. It desires and pines for one voice only,
one smile, one touch that will draw nu-.sic
from a chord silent to all others. I\Iore
than blest are those whom the gods love,
and unite early in the Elysian fields, where
they may roam together throughout eternity.

It is truly a wearisome and intricate, task
to follow through all its perplexing windings
the vagaries of the human heart. Some-
times we feel a sort of impatient pain be-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

cause those we love cannot shield them-
selves from suffering. If they have been
wounded once, and that wound has healed,
why should they allow the dart to pierce
them the second time? Such thoughts
passed through the mind of Madame .Lan-
del, as she noticed with anxiety that Con-
stance's old restlessness was returning. She
was no longer the calm, happy girl she had
been during the first weeks of their arrival
in Rome, A constant change of purpose; a
constant der-ire to do something different,
to visit some new scene, to find some new
excitement ; a feverish restlessness, that
would not allow her to sit quietly with her
books and drawing ; neither did her hither-
to beloved study of music afford her any
enjoyment, it seemed to have lost its charm.
Suddenly, only giving as a reason that she
was tired, she discontinued her lessons, and
scarcely ever sang. She avoided as much
as possible the society of Lady Dinsmore
and Florence, because Guido spent most of
his time with them. She passed whole days
in the early part of the spring wandering
through the picture-galleries with Madame
Landel.

One day she sat in the Corsini Palace
before those three marvellous pictures, the
Ecce Homos of Guido, Guercino, and Carlo
Dolce, studying with sad, tearful eyes each
impressive face of the dying Christ.

' Tell me, please," she said, turning to
Madame Landel, "which picture do you
prefer ? "

" I can scarcely explain my impressions ;
but say, my dear, what are yours ? "

" I find," she said, " in the head of the
Guereino, too much of human suffering. The
Christ is a dying gladiator who only feels
the agony of physical pain. The thorns
pierce and fret the quivering brow, and the
whole strong nature seems about giving way
under the accumulation of bodily suffering.
The Carlo Dolce is the type of an exh i
worn man, weak and feeble, with infinite
sweetness and patience in every line of his
almost effeminate face. He seems to say,
' See how lamb-like I bear my buffeting,
my scourging, my thorns ! ' The weary head
sinks on the quiet breast; beneath the down-
cast lids gather the tears of tender sorrow ;
he bows, he succumbs; in unappealing sub-
mission to the Divine will. Now look at the
Guido, feebler perhaps in drawing, poor in
color ; but the divinity of the God-man is
stamped in every line. He does not feel
the piercing thorns, the nails, the spear.
The firm, but sweetly suffering lips seem to
say, ' I die to atone for the sins of the world.
On me rests the burden of every agonized
human heart, in all time past, in all time to
come. I die as a man, but I endure as a
God.' The artist has not tried to touch the
coarser nature with streaming blood and

1 quivering wounds ; he has striven to portray
rather the mental than the phy>ical siilTcr-
ing of the Son of (Jod, and in that In- has
succeeded while the other two have failed.
Therefore to me. although the Guercino is
the most forcible, and according to all rules
of art the finest picture, yet the Guido is
beyond comparison the most powerful."

"You have expressed my opinion, dear,
better than I could have done myself, al-
though I have seldom dared disagree with
the decision of competent ciitics, that the
Guercino is the best picture."

" The best is not what appeals to the eye,
it is what touches the heart. Look at this
ill-drawn Virgin of Fra Angelico, gentle
creature. She is poor and ignorant, -lie
has walked over the rough paths of li;
hands are hard with toil ; but her heart is as
soft and innocent as the mysterious child
upon her knee. In her eye is an expression
of Inly awe and love, on her lip a smile
of divine sweetness and reserve. What a
contrast to the common dark woman, with
passionate eyes, and hard bold face, which
Murillo has chosen for his type ! Verily the
man's life is stamped upon his work. Fra
Angelico in his convent cell, without an
earthly model, working from the ideal he
had formed in his pure heart, achieved more
than Murillo with the teaching of nearly
three centuries of improvement. How can
a man whose life is stained by contact with
the world select for his model a type of
sensual beauty, and leave upon his picture,
which he names a Madonna, any impress of
divine purity and innocence ? "

The hours spent in the study of these
creations of immortal genius were the most
peaceful Constance experienced. Scarcely
a day passed that she did not say to Madame
Landel, " Let us go to some gallery for a
few hours." She spent much time at St.
Peter's and the Vatican, where she would
gaze with enraptured eyes at the Trans-
figuration, which so beautifully combines the
touching story of man's impotence and help-
less suffering with the power and love of
God. Or she would wander, with a sort of
aimlessness, through the tapestried halls
and pictured stanze of the immortal ma~!er;
oilen too preoccupied with her own sad
thoughts to fully understand their beauties.
Sometimes she knelt before the high altar
under the vast dome, and raised her tearful
eyes to the pictured saints above, as though
she would invoke their aid to help her bear
the burden of life, which at times w
unendurable. Again she would bow her
head in self-abasement, and murmur, (Jod
forgive me that I complain, and weakly
suffer this passion to fill all my lite. (Jive
me strength that I may conquer this
love, or I shall sink into deeper sorrow and
despair."

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

No one but Madame Landel dreamed
of the struggle that was passing in the
poor girl's heart. Outwardly she strove to
appear happy, and in the presence of Guido,
whom she avoided as much as possible, she
wore her visor of pride, which rendered her
face inscrutable. Still, since the night she
had thrown herself, half unconscious with
terror, into his arms, Guido had been hap-
pier ; he felt she loved him, and he some-
times dared to hope that she might yet be
his wife. The deep friendship and evident
interest of Lady Dinsmore in every concern
of his life made him feel that, with her in-
fluence in his favor, even the disgrace of his
birth might be forgotten. Still he was too
proud and sensitive to risk the displeasure
of Constance by a proposal that she might
consider presuming, even though she loved
him. He did not know that love eventually
levels all barriers and distinctions, ennobling
the object, no matter how unworthy.

The lovely winter months passed away,
and the tide of time bore them to the verge
of spring.

Filomena was still absent on her useless
quest. Sometimes Benedetto showed to
Guido an ill-spelled scrawl, written by some
public scrivone, in which she would express
a hope that in the next town cr city she
might find or hear something from her
child.

A letter from Mr. Vandeleur to Constance,
dated Florence, told her he had returned
from France, where he had failed to find
any trace of De Villiers. He spoke of clouds
already darkening the political horizon of
Italy; and said that the murmuring sea,
and the murmuring wind, and the unquiet
heart of man all joined in the same cry,
" It is time some one died for Italy ! "

" I cannot," he said, " take part in a
struggle that will only rivet anew the chains
of those who groan in bondage ; for Italy
free, for Italy a republic, I would gladly
give my worthless life. Where the powers
of darkness struggle together, there will be
suffering humanity, and there is my place,
independent of party, power, or faction. I
must be ready to alleviate pain, to nurse
the sick and wounded, to aid the poor, to
feed the hungry, to put the cup of cold
water to the dying lips, whether it be of
friend or foe. The reparation I would
make to one who I fear is lost to me for-
ever, I must make to all mankind. Pray
for me, my cherished friend, my good angel,
that God may accept it."

Constance wept when she read the letter,
and thought, " While this man, to whom I
pointed out the path of duty, is heroically
trying to conquer self, and atone for a past
sin, I am idly folding my hands and luxuri-
ating in a sorrow that is unworthy of me "
Then she took a sudden whim, as Mrs.

Tremaine said, to become a ministering
angel ; for, at the risk ot'taking the lever, she
dragged poor Madame Landol into horribly
dirty lanes and alleys to seek for the suffering
poor, which she ibund in abundance ; sent
bread and wine, soup and meat; gave
away unheedingly any number of baiocchi
to the miserable herd of ragazzi that sur-
rounded her; and one day astonished the
woman who clipped dogs on the Spanish
steps by slipping a five-franc piece into her
hand, for which extraordinary performance
all the blessings of the Santa Madonna were
showered upon her head. " 1 cannot do
much," she would say, " but if a little
money can aid these poor creatures, they
shall have it willingly."

Poor restless heart! she longed to do
something whereby she might gain peace.
She denied herself her greatest pleasure,
that of attending the Catholic ceremonies
where Guido sang, and went instead to the
Protestant Church, where the impressive
service was badly read, the singing a farce,
and the sermon a combination of dogmatic
platitudes, that did not touch her heart into
reverence, as did the pictured saints, the
ascending incense, and the glorious music at
St. Peter's. Still she felt it to be her duty,
and so she struggled through it with a sort of
dreary longing for one of her dear lather's
sermons, thinking, " O, if I could but sit hi
the old church at Helmsford, and IOOK into
his serene face, that never was stern or cold
to me ! "

Toward the last of April the warm
weather came on, and they began to discuss
their plans for the summer. Lady Dinsmore
found the health of Florence improving so
rapidly under the influence of the soft cli-
mate that she resolved to remain abroad
another year. Very often she said, " I wish
to spend the summer in one of the lovely
villas that surround the Bay of Naples " ; so
it was decided that the two families should
unite, and hire for the summer Sans Souci,
a pleasantly situated villa half-way between
Castelamare and Sorento, on one of the
lovely heights that overlook the fairest spot
on earth, the enchanting Bay of Naples.

Lady Dinsmore had invited Guido and
Mr. Carnegie to visit her, and when she said
to Mrs. Tremaine, with her usual care for
the happiness of others, " Shall I invite the
Prince V " much to her surprise, Helen,
turning a little pale, replied, " No, thank
you, I would rather you did not; it is much
better that he should not be invited."

" But, my dear, you have become so ac-
customed to his society, can you be happy
without it ? "

" I must endeavor to be so," she said, in
a hard, cold tone,\ " for I am not likely to
have much of it in the future." Then, turn-
ing impulsively to Lady Dinsmore, she

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

took her hand in hers and kissed it. " O
how pood you are ! If I could only be like
you ! "

" My dear girl, I have suffered, and I
understand your sorrow. I pity you, and
wish it were in my power to make you
happy. You are right : if you must part, it
is better to do so at once." Then with
tearful eyes she kissed Mrs. Trernaine's
cheek, and said softly, " Cheer up, dear
heart, you will not be unhappy always.
Time will heal the wound."

" Or Death will gently touch it with his
cold finder, and it will cease to bleed," re-
plied Helen.

CHAPTER XXX.

ALL IS OVER BETWEEN US FOREVER.

MRS. TREMAINE sat before the dress-
ing-table in her room. Her watch lay
open near her, and her eyes were fixed
upon it with a strange, agonized expression.
" Nearly three o'clock," she said, with
an inflection of despair in -her voice.
" In ten minutes he will be here. Then
my happiness ends, and I must begin to
bear the weight of a ruined life. Ten
minutes more and I must say farewell to
this sweet dream, I must engage in a con-
Aict which will be the transition from bliss
to misery. With my own lips I must utter
the worus that will be the death-warrant
to my happiness. With my own hand I
must put away the scarcely tasted cup of
joy. Forever, forever, as long as God
burdens me with weary days and sleepless
nights, I shall bear about with me a wound,
a blight, that none must know of; and I
must live a constant lie. O the weariness
of hypocrisy and deceit ! If in all the fu-
ture I could wear sackcloth, and sit in the
ashes and weep, life would be more endur-
able. Three o'clock," and she pushed
away her watch, and started up paler than
death as she heard a servant approaching
her door.

" The Prince is in the salon, Signora."
" Say I will be with him directly."
She glanced at the mirror, arranging her
waves of gold. She would be as lovely as
possible, that the memory of her beauty
might haunt every hour of his future life.

" Heavens ! how pale I am ! " and she
rubbed her cheeks with feverish energy to
redden a little their almost ghastly white-
ness. Then, adjusting the delicate lace
around her throat, and smoothing the abun-
dant folds of her pale blue dress, she left
the room with a calm, proud step.

Something of the courageous despair of
Sappho, mingled with the sorrow of Iphi-
genia, filled her heart with a stern resolve to
11

meet this man, and then and there to put
an end forever to this chapter of her life
by sacrificing her happiness to the worldly
interest of the one she loved.

He arose and took her hand as she en-
tered the salon, and, looking into her lovely
face, said softly, " ( '- ."', you do

i not meet rne with a smile."

She drew away, and, leaning against a
marble console, as though she could derive
some strength from contact with the cold
stone, she said, in a voice of forced calmness,
" Prince Conti, do you know why I have
asked for this interview to-day ? "

The blood mounted to his handsome
face as he replied, " How should 1 know
what has induced you to grant me such a
pleasure ? "

" It is because to-morrow I leave Rome,
as you already know, and I would take my
last farewell of you."

" Your last farewell ! " he repeated, vague-
ly. "I beseech you to choose some other
subject for pleasantry."

u I assure you this is not a pleasantry, I
am most solemnly in earnest. From this
hour all is over between us forever."

A mortal paleness overspread his face.
" Then you have never loved me ?^'

" I have loved you."

" And you love me no more V "

" Yes, I love you, and I shall love you
until my heart is stilled forever."

" Then, Helen, why must we part? I
love you deeply. I love you as I can never
love another. Why must we part ? "

" Because," she replied, in the same voice
of forced calmness, " as dearly as I love
you, I love my honor still more. Our
names are already connected. And the
cruel misjudging world orders this parting,
or I must pay the penalty of a ruined repu-
tation."

" Ah," he said, with something of scorn
in his voice, " there can be little love in
this cold worldly prudence."

" Look at me, Ortensio." She drew
nearer, and, laying her soft white hand on
his arm, she raised her blue eyes to his.
" Look in my face, and tell me if you see
aught but truth there, and do not dare
to say I have never loved you. I would
willingly lay my dead body in the dust at
your ieet if over it you could walk to for-
tune and fame. I am young, and yon say
beautiful. If I might die in your arms this
moment, I would say to the darkness and
corruption of the grave, ' Behold your
sister ! ' I would welcome with joy the
consoler, and his cold breath would be the
kiss of peace. What am I to do in all the
dreary years to come ? How am I to live
without your voice, your smile ? O that
my heart would die within me, and feel no
more this corroding pain ! But it will live ;

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

like a poor body half palsied, it will live
only to be conscious of its suffering."

" O Helen ! " he cried, falling at her feet
and covering her hands with tears and
kisses, "do not say we must part. We
need not part. Be my wife. With thee
I will forget my poverty; happy in thy
love, I will forget my ruin. I will labor for
thee. In same other land far from here I
will cease to remember that the blood of the
princes of Conti flows in my veins. I will
forget the lost palaces of my ancestors, and
my base wish to regain them at the cost of
my happiness and the integrity of my man-
hood. No ; a desire so unworthy of me has
passed away forever. Everything in com-
parison with thy love is insignificant. With
thee life will have enough of joy. I can
well dispense with wealth."

" Dear Ortensio," she said, leaning her
golden head on his shoulder, and laying her
arm around his neck, " dear noble darling,
I am proud that you are superior to the
selfishness the world accredits to you. In
this moment I love you as I never have be-
fore, because now I know how true and
strong your heart is. Now I find you above
the avarice which I feared was the only
blot, on a being the most perfect God ever
created."

Adoring woman ! Even while she spoke,
if she could have looked into the heart of
her lover, she would have seen that a gloomy
reaction had already taken place. For
scarcely had bis lips repeated the words
which his cooler judgment told him were
rain to his prospects before he repented
having made an offer which he never for
one moment doubted would be accepted.
But his fond, passionate eyes, as they looked
into hers, did not betray his secret ; neither
did his voice, as he repeated, with every
variation of tenderness, the expressive terms
of endearment with which bis lovely lan-
guage abounds.

For one moment Helen leaned on his
breast in a. sort of ecstatic dream. For one
moment their lips met in a kiss of deep, fer-
vent passion ; and then, white and cold, she
drew away from his encircling arms, and
stood with clasped hands and compressed
lips, looking at him. He came near her, to
fold her again to his heart, but she waved
him away.

"No, no," she paid, with a sickly smile;
" no more weakness, for I have much need
of strength. Did you think, my darling, for
one moment, that I could accept your sacri-
fice, that I could be the weight to drag
you down ? No, no, I love you too well for
that. I love you better than myself or my
own happiness. And it is because I love
you that I can never be your wife."

He interrupted her with passionate pro-
testations.

" Hush ! " she said, almost sternly,
" hush, and let me speak ! I understand
you better than you understand yourself.
A moment of weakness has betrayed you
into saying what your cookr judgment
would condemn. I am comparatively poor.
I could not assist you to maintain the posi-
tion to which you were born ; neither could
I endure to see you grow weary day by day,
your brow contract and lower with gloomy
care, your gay, happy nature change with
regret and disappointment. You talk of
labor in another land ! O my poor darling !
what do you know of dull, uninteresting
labor ? you, a child of the South ; born to
sport like a butterfly on the breeze of pros-
perity ! Heretofore poverty has been but
a name to you. You have lived in elegance
on the remnants of the glory of your ances-
tors. But gradually it is diminished, until
the future has, little to give you. You must
look to another source for wealth. There
are many women, rich, lovely, and young,
who will gladly ally themselves to your
noble name, and through whom you can
redeem your lost estates. Unfortunately I
have not wealth ; for with wealth I could
make you happy, but without it I should
make you miserable. Therefore you see I
cannot be your wife, and we must part."

" O Helen ! " he exclaimed, with a feeling
of mingled relief r.nd sorrow, "why do you
torture me so ? If, as you say, you cannot
be my wife, why need we part ? Cannot
we love each other the same ? "

She locked at him a moment, flushing and
paling. Then, tossing back the waves of
gold from her brow, and drawing her
queenly figure to its full height, while a
glance of scorn flashed from under her
white lids, she replied, " You are the Prince
Conti, and I am simply Mrs. Tremaine,
the daughter of a poor English cffi-
cer. But I am very proud, and my fair
fame is more precious to me than my
love. Already the charitable world has
united our names not any too kindly. An
entire and irrevocable separation is the
cnly thing that can stop the vile mouth of
slander. You, as well as myself, must see
the necessity of this. Whether in the fu-
ture we are entirely apart from each other,
or whether we may meet in society, I am to
you henceforth only Mrs. Tremaine, and you
to me are the Prince Conti ; nevi r again
Helen and Ortensio, two loving, passionate
souls, that have met together for a lew briefj
blissful hours, only to be separated by the
cruel circumstances of life. I think you
have loved me, and I believe you will love
me. But you are strong enough to wear the
iron mask, to hide beneath the joy of life
whatever you may feel of regret and sorrow.
And I, Ortensio, I will forever bless the fate
that brought us together. I have loved.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

Through you and with you, I have known
as much of happiness in this brief time as
usually falls to the lot of mortals. I have
feasted with the gods. I have drunk the
wine of the grapes of Eden. I have eaten of
the fruit ripened under the walls of Paradise.
The amaranth and the asphodel have crown-
ed for a moment my brow, and henceforth I
am immortal. Shall I then murmur, now
the feast is finished, because it did not last
forever ? No, no ; it has been, and that
is enough. The memory of it will be a sing-
ing bird that will nestle forever in my heart.
I cannot agree with Tennyson, that ' a sor-
row's crown of sorrow is remembering hap-
pier things.' How I shall suffer, God only
knows ; but there will be moments when the
gentle showers will refresh the burning soil
of my heart, and buds and blossoms will
spring into life fragrant with the odor of the
past. And who knows," she said, press-
ing her hand to her heart, with a little shiv-
er, " who knows if it will be long. I think,
in the years to come, when you are sitting in
your gloomy old palace with your stately
wife at your side, and your children rever-
ently surrounding you, the golden hair of
poor Helen Tremaine will have been soiled
with grave-mould many a year."

" Hush, Helen ! Have pity on me ! " he
cried, with passionate sobs. " You break my
heart. We cannot part, we shall both be
miserable forever. No, I swear to you, if
you will not be my wife, to remain as I am.
You are the only woman I love, and I will
have no other."

She smiled in his face, and, taking his
hand in hers, pressed her soft lips upon it,
while the large tears rolled over her cheeks.
"Now farewell, darling! God bless you!
May you be very happy with some good
noble woman ! "

He clapped her in his arms, and said in
a voice choked with emotion, " Why this
sad farewell ? One would think we were
never to meet again."

" We may meet again, Ortensio, but not
as now. This is the last time my head will
ever lie upon your breast unless it i- in
doa l h. If you are near me, I shall pray to
die in your arms."

She clung to him, silently sobbing. Per-
haps each felt with prophetic force that it
was indeed the last time heart wuiild throb
against heart, warm wi'.h life and love. For
their faces were as solemn, when they parted,
as though they had been in the presence of
death.

The Prince looked gloomy and thoughtful
as he walked down the Corso at an unusual-
ly languid pace, towa:d the Cafe di Roma,
where he had an appointment with some of
the young nobility, never heeding the lovely
faces that, smiled at him from the line of car-
ritises that were rolling down the Pincio.

" What can be the matter with Conti ? "
exclaimed a gay donna. ' He looks most
disconsolate."

" Certamente he has proposed, and la b<=.Ua
bionda has refused him," replied her com-
panion.

It was true he was very unhappy, but only
at the thought of parting from '.Mrs. Tre-
maine for what he believed to be a few
months ; he consoled himself by thinking that
she would return to Rome the next winter.
She loved him, and all would be renewed ;
women were always a little sensational;
perhaps it was gotten up to make their brief
parting more effective, lor the surely could
not mean entirely what she said. " But she
is a splendid creature ; few would have had
the courage to refuse me, for fear I should
never ask them again She is the first dis-
interested woman 1 ever met. I wonder
if she suspected my feelings. However, 1
was sincere when 1 said 1 loved her ; but
she is right, my love could not st;;nd the
test of poverty. Per Bacco ! if she were
rich I would marry her at once, but, as it is,
I cannot. Yet there is no reason, because
we can't marry at present, that we should
not see each other the game as we have
done. Perhaps, now, she meant v.hat she
said ; but she never will have strength to
keep to such a resolve ; women never are
strong."

Mrs. Tremaine tottered to her room;
life, hope, joy, all seemed to have left her
suddenly and forever. She closed the door,
sank into a chair, and, burying her face in
the pillows of her bed, tat without mo-
tion, sob, or sigh. " It is the beginning of
the half-life," she thought, ' the deadness
and stupor of the soul, the reaction that
follows a strong excitement, the sensation
of a body thrust from a great height, that
feels no pain at first because of the numb-
ness produced by the fcrce of the shock. I
do not realize it quite at this moment, I
shall suffer more in the time to ci me. Now
I seem to hear his voice, I leel the clasp
of his arms around me, my face is yet warm
with his tender kist-es. The agi.ny will be
in the future, when I shall hunger and thirst
for his voice, when I shall pine for his
smile. Ah ! I know the time will come
when I would willingly give half the years
of my life for one caress. But why think of
this ? It is finished. All is over forever.
He is as dead to me for the future as though
the grave had hidden him." She arc.-
walked slowly back and forth, pressing In r
hand to her side, while a dreary smile trem-
bled around her lips, a smile like that we
tomot imes see on the face of the dead.

" This pain is a premonition of pence. I
think I thall not suffer long, and he will al-
wavs see me before him, as I was in tin- glow
of my youth and beauty ; others will change

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

and grow old, but I shall always be young to
him ; 1 shall always be golden-haired Helen
Tremaine, 'sweet Helen,' as he so often
named me."

She repeated the words with a lingering
tenderness, as though she derived some con-
solation from them. Pausing before a vase
from which drooped some blue campanula
that he had gathered for her from a ruin the
day before, she took them from the water, and,
pressing them reverently to her lips, folded
them in his last note to her, and laid them
in the bottom of her desk.

" Poor little flowers ! " she said, " you
bloomed amid ruin and desolation until he
gathered you to place you upon my breast.
You are delicate, you aje lovely, your color
speaks of fidelity. Yes, I will be faithful,
too faithful, to a memory."

Perhaps a resemblance to her own fate
crossed her mind, as she laid them away,
withered and faded, hidden forever from
the wooing kisses of the breeze and the sun.

Although she had decided long before
that this hour must come, that nothing
could induce her to become the wife of
Prince Conti, even if he wished it with all
the fervency and forgetfulness of a grande
passion, yet, now that he had accepted her
refusal, there was a mingled feeling of regret
and disappointment because he had done
so; but the thought never for a moment
dawned upon her mind, that perhaps, after
all, her idol's feet might be clay. No, sha
could make all necessary excuses for his
supreme selfishness and avarice ; for love
always invests its object with a thousand
noble attributes to which it has no claims.

It would have been better if she could
have believed him less perfect; but as it
was, she enshrined him in her heart as the
reality of the most beautiful ideal a roman-
tic woman ever portrayed.

CHAPTER XXXI.

WHY?

f"PIIE dinner-bell rang and Mrs. Tremaine
JL hastened to arrange her dress. Lady
Dinsmore, Florence, Mr. Carnegie, and
Guido dined with them this last 'day, and
she must take her place among them as
usual. " Now," she said, with a heart-
breaking sigh, " I must put on my mask,
never to lay it aside one moment in the
presence of others. The world shall not
say that Helen Tremaine is dying for love.
Happily I shall not always be with the
world. There will be hours when I can be
by myself, hours of silence and loneli-
ness, when I can weep and moan unheeded.
But no, I must not weep, for tears leave

their traces, and nothing betrays a hidden
sorrow like red eyelids, and ruins one's
beauty so. If I mourn, the world will not
know it ; for it will be my heart that will
weep tears of blood. There," she added,
glancing at the mirror, " none will imagine I
have come out of great tribulation. There
are no signs of it on my lace ; my mask fits
well and conceals all." So, with her usual
light step and gay smile, she entered the
drawing-room. Constance, Guido, and
Florence were at a table, sorting ai;d it:--
ranging some photographic views of Rome,
while they laughed and chatted over the
probable adventures of their next day's
journey. Lady Dinsmore, Madame Landel,
and Mr. Carnegie were talking seriously of
the political state of the country ; and Mr.
Carnegie held in his hand a journal, from
which he had just read an account of the
insurrection at Parma.

" We certainly could not go north at
present," said Lady Dinsmore ; " how fortu-
nate that we have arranged to spend the
summer in the south ! I think there is HO
part of Italy whei-e we shall bo safer."

" Do you believe we shall be able to enter
Rome in the autumn ? " inquired Madame
Landel, with some anxiety.

" O certainly," replied Mr. Carnegie.
" The northern Adriatic states will be the
scene of the conflict. Rome will not be at-
tacked at present ; the time has not come.
The Papal states must be gradually dimin-
ished by uniting them to Italy before they
can dare hope to add Rome. This strong-
hold of the Pope will stand in solitary
grandeur many a year."

" But eventually it must succumb," said
Lady Dinsmore.

" Yes, eventually, but not yet ; the time
has not come."

" Dinner is waiting, Constance," said
Madame Landel ; and they all entered the
dining-room.

" Please don't talk any more of political
troubles," exclaimed Mrs. Tremaine, as they
seated themselves at the table. " Let us be
merry, for who knows if we shall all dine
together again ! "

" Now you have started a subject for sad
thoughts ; how unlike you ! " said Mr. Car-
negie, smiling gently as he helped her to a
glass of Orvieto.

" Certainly we shall all dine together very
soon, shall we not, mamma?" inquired
Florence. " Mr. Carnegie and Signer Guido
have promised to come to us in three weeks ;
then what merry times we shall have ! O
the boating, bathing, and the donkey-riding 1
Won't it all be delightful ? "

" O the sand-flies and the mosquitoes
and the burning sun ! " said Mrs. Tremaine,
laughing. " I doubt if we shall find our
paradise anything but earth."

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

" Ah, that is because the Prince won't
be there ! " retorted Florence, thoughtlessly.

The expression of Mrs. Tremaine's lace
never changed as she said lightly, " But
perhaps some other destroying angel will
deign to alight in our midst. Lady Char-
lotte told me yesterday that the young Duke
of Fitzhaven, whom you admire so much,
intends spending the summer in Sorento."

" O, that will be jolly ! what a gay party
we shall have ! "

And so* in light badinage the dinner
passed off, and no one but Mr. Carnegie no-
ticed that Mrs. Tremaine sent away plate
after plate almost untasted.

An hour afterward they were gathered
around the piano for a farewell " concert," as
Florence called it. Guido had just finished
playing that exquisite but incomprehensible
Warum ? of Schumann.

"Warum? what does it msan?" in-
quired Mrs. Tremaine, who did not under-
stand German.

" Why," replied Constance.

" Why," laughed Mrs, Tremaine ; " why
did he write it ? and why did he call it Why ? "

" Because," said Mr. Carnegie. " at the
time he wrote it he was desperately in love
with Clara Weeks, whom he could not mar-
ry. I suppose what he intended to de-
mand by that passionate outburst was,
' Why cannot I marry the woman I love ? '
It is said to have had the desired effect,
for it so softened the hitherto obdurate heart
of her father that ha at once gave his con-
sent to the marriage, and the unfortunate
Robert Schumann was made happy after
much patient waiting." And Mr. Carnegie
glanced shyly at Helen.

" Yet his happiness seems to have come
almost too late," observed Guido ; " for the
sorrow of his life weighed so heavily on his
sensitive temperament that it accelerated
the mental disease which terminated his
brilliant career so early."

" Ah," s ad Lady Dinsmore, with a strange
pathos in her voice, "how many rebsllious,
unsatisfied souls have wailed out almost in
the same despairing tones, ' Why ? why ? ' "
But little she thought, among the seven per-
sons present, four unhappy, -suffering hearts
were even in that moment silently asking
Why?

"Why," thought Constance, "has fate
separated mo from the only person I can
ever love ? " and Guido, lost in thought, put
the same question to his own heart. " And
why," mentally ejaculated Mr. Carnegie,
why cannot I win the love of this divine crea-
ture ? " And the divine creature, her mind
a prey to the most torturing thoughts, her
soul filled vjith rebellion and sorrow, almost
cried tiljiv.l in her sliarp anguish, " Why has
this cruel destiny cut me off forever from
hope and peace ? "

How many pale lips and streaming eves
have been uplifted to Him who hears for-
ever, as the voice of many waters, the mur-
muring of suffering humanity, rolling wave-
like into his presence the innumerable whys
of every questioning heart ! And he, the
Son, who sitteth near the Father, in that
dark hour when he knelt in the grove of
Gethsemane, crying, in the extreme of men-
tal anguish, " Why cannot this cup pass
from me ? " bore in that moment the burden
of all the whys that have fallen from each
human heart in all time.

And doth he not often, he the divine,
whisper to us who are listening for the still,
small voice, " Wait, I see the end from the
beginning. Lite is solving for thee the prob-
lem, and my Father will answer thy ques-
tions in his own good time " ?

"What shall I sing?" said Guido at
length, raising his eyes to Constance with
earnest inquiry.

" I am not in the mood to choose," she
replied ; " and if I were, my selection might
not please the others. I am very sad at
this moment." She spoke in a low voice,
and the words fell from her lips befare she
was aware of how much meaning they might
contain. An eloquent glance shot arrow-
like to her heart, as Guido turned over the
music and selected the simple but exquisite
Addio of Schubert, and his loving heart
looked from his eyes as he sang with touch-
ing expression,

" Addio mio bene, addio donna del primo amor."

" Bravo ! " exclaimed Mr. Carnegio, when
he had finished. " If we were a fashionable
audience in a London concert room, your
fortune and reputation would be made be-
yond a doubt."

Guido smiled his thanks, but he did not
covet the applause of a London audience ;
he only sang to one heart, mid if that had
understood him it was enough, he was more
than contented.

As Constance bade him good nij;ht, and
good by for a time, he fancied there was
a little warmth in the light pressure of her
hand, and a little tenderness in the smile
that lingered around her mouth; hov
he went to his room happier than lu> had
bsen for a long time, kissed his ivory cruci-
fix with more devotion than usual, ivpcatcd
more than his usual number of paternosters,
and looked with a little more than religious
affection at his pictured Madonna, which
he fancied resembled Constance, and then
slept calmly and peacefully.

Mrs. Tremaine being in her room, her ne-
cessity for acting was laid aside with her
evening dress, and no longer compelled her
to smile ; her lips were compressed, her brow
was contracted, her face set, and white as
enow under moonlight. Her golden hair

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

unbound and falling over her like a veil, she listening in stately silence; the children
paced to and fro in the dimly lighted room rolling and tumbling in the foam that gently
like a lovely restless spirit. No tears, no lapped the shore ; a tiny boat, with a single
\mn<nn<T of the hands, no bursting sobs ; I boatman standing in the bow, and using his
only the blue eyes looked forth into the one oar with peculiar grace arid power,
night, a deep longing agony in their gaze, j rose and fell, a toy on the inrolling waves,
The little hands were pressed hot and dry j but nevertheless came swiftly and surely
against her throbbing heart, and now and toward the shore ; the glorious ravs of the

then she tottered as though weariness or
weakness were gaining upon her. One
o'clock, two o'clock, three o'clock ; all are
silent, the world is lapped in repose, she
pauses like one exhausted with a long
march, and, throwing herself heavily into a
chair, she says, " O, I hoped weariness of
body would bring sleep, but it will not. And
I must sleep, or I shall have no strength for
to-morrow."

Taking a small phial ftom her dressing-
table, she poured a few drops of a dark
liquid into a glass of water. After drink-
ing it she threw herself on her bed, and
was almost immediately wrapped in a
profound slumber.

CHAPTER XXXII.

BY THE SEA.

N the beach near a little hamlet between
Sinigaglia and Ancona sat a group of
fishermen. The day was nearly done ; the
yellow sun dropping down behind the Ap-
ennines flung rainbow tints over the sea, and
lighted up the bronzed faces of the sailors.
Their day's labor was over ; their boats were
drawn up on the shore for the night, the
red and orange sails flapping loceely against
the masts, which were painted in rings of
many colors. The brown, weather-stained
planks, fastened with nails that time and
much dragging over the sand had worn to a
silvery brightness ; the patches of red, white,
and green ; the rude figure-head of the
Madonna ; the Latin inscription around
the painted bow, in black letters on a white
ground ; the festoons of rags of unnamable
shades ; the stones of the beach golden in

sun lighting and gilding all with wondrous
beauty, formed a picture, the cclor and
arrangement of which would have delighted
Vernet, and which only his pe'ncil could
have rendered with strength and fidelity.

" Sant' Antonio mio ! " exclaimed a fierce,
wild-looking man, the oldest of the party,
starting up and pacing the beach with long
furious strides. " Let them come, the
Francesi and Tedeschi ; we will give them
enough before they finish. They {hall have
hot work, ay, as hot as the inferno. It will
give strength to every true Italian to know
he is cutting down one of these cursed in-
vaders. A malediction on them ! may they
perish by the plague and the swcrd ! "

" Figlio mio ! " said he, addressing a
boy of sixteen, who stood gazing at him
with wide-open eyes, ' will you fight for
Italy?"

" Yes," replied the boy, eagerly ; " but I
would rather fight with Garibaldi."

" <Sz,*.sl, caro Garibaldi. But let us drive
out these cursed forestieri that are eating
up the land, and then his time will come.
Let Italy be united before she can be free.
If we had Garibaldi for a leader, instead of
Cialdini, we should fight with one heart,
every man would die for him."

" Yes, every man would die for him ! "
they all exclaimed.

" Ah, he is a hero," said a ycung man,
with eyes of fire. " Do you remember the
story his men told cf him when he was
fighting down in Calabria ? After the battle
the officers looked fcr their general, but he
was missing ; and where do you think they
found him ? "

" Where ? where ? " inquired all.

" Why, en the ground with his tired
soldiers, his head on a saddle, and a crust
of black bread that he was too tired to eat

OJLACtVAt >O J I XJO i^LV^LICD \J1 L 1 1 V3 UVCH/JLl ii\Jl.VJV- 1.1 - ^^

the yellow light ; the background of clay j clasped in his hand, and there he was sleep-
hovels, and the hills behind clothed with ing like a child."

When the speaker finished, they all
shouted " Bravo ! viva Garibaldi ! "
Have you heard this story ? "

the gray grren of the olive and the tender
green of the vine ; on the right the for-
tressed heights of Ancona, and on the left

the picturesque, sombre old town of Sini-
the trroup of rough rugged sailors,

another ; but what it. was they did not wait

r , to hear, for one of the women exclaimed,

their short linen trousers and blue shirts, " // Signore ! U Signore ' " and darted away
their brown muscular limbs, their straight] toward a tall man who was ccming down
clear-cut features, piercing eyes, and black, the beach. He was thin and pale, with a

long grizzled beard and gentle blue eyes

uncombed hair falling from under thp'ir red
caps ; their naturally expressive positions as
they lounged against the boats, smoking,
and gesticulating violently while they talked;
the women standing near with folded arm

His coarse gray suit had a careless, neg-
lected look, but the fine white linen and
small hands and feet betrayed the gentle-
man. In his arms he carried a little brown

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

spaniel, that looked in his face with most
loving eves, as he addressed it from time to
tima in terms of affection that it evidently
understood. He had scarcely reached the
group when he was surrounded by all the
women and children, each clamoring for
some mark of favor ; while the men arose,
and, pulling off their red caps, bowed re-
spectfully, and one, covering a rock with a
coarse blanket, asked him to sit and rest.

" Bat first, S ignore, come to the cottage
and see my little Beppo," said a haggard,
swarthy woman ; " he has cried for you all
day, povcro bambino, and I can do nothing
with him, he only asks for il Signore"

" My poor Angela is dying, Jigho mio,"
trembled out an old white-haired man, hob-
bling up and taking hold of his coat timidly.
" Will you come and say a word to her ?
She would rather see you than the curato."

" Yes, yes, in a moment, Giuseppe, but let
me go to the poor baby first. I have brought
some medicine, which he must have direct-

iy"

" Bless you ! " replied the woman, clasp-
ing his hand and kissing it. " Perhaps he
may live."

" Speriamo," he said gently, as he turned
toward the cottage, followed by all the chil-
dren.

There on a few dirty rags lay a little
emaciated creature, with eyes like great
spots of ink on a sheet of blank paper ; he
smiled in the man's face, and held out his
arms for the little dog.

" But Bappo must take the medicine first,"
he said, raising the child, and putting the
cup to his lips. The boy made a very wry
face, but heroically gulped down the bitter
dratight, and thc-n pressed the little spaniel
in his arms with delight. After exchanging a
few kind words with the mother, and laying a
little money and some oranges on the dirty
deal table, he said he would go to Angela,
and take the dog as he returned.

Passing alon;; a little farther, he came to
a hovel so low that he was obliged to stoop
to enter, and tliL're lay a creature almost
hideous in her ghastly old age. Yet a smile
of pleasure flitted over har face, and stirred
the skin that hung like wrinkled paper, as
he took h;>r horny black fingers in his, and
asked her kindly if she were better.

" No, no, Si;/nor mio, Angela will never be
any better until the Santa Mi/'/:tn> smiles
on her, and bids her come to her. She has
been waiting so lon-;>-, for ten suffering years,
but pazienz't, tha en 1 will come soon. Now
tell me a little about the Santo Cristo when
he was on earth. The curato tells me I
must pray and do penances because my
Lord is aniry with mo,, but you tell me he
loves m2 ; then pray to him that my poor
soul may haye a short punishment in purga-
tory."

"My poor woman, T am a sinner like you,
and can do little for your soul ; ]>r;n to
Christ yourself, be will hear you." li
curtly but kindly, as he laid a flask of wine
and some money on the bed, and turned
away.

The men surrounded him on the beach
with innumerable eager questions ;:b jut the
political state of the country ; ibr as none
of them could read, they depended entirely
on verbal accounts, which often came to
them incorrect and exaggerated ; but what-
ever information he gave them they knew
they could rely on.

" When will the Italian troops march
upon Ancona? Is there a lar^ pontifical
army in the field ? Where will the fir.-t en-
gagement take place that will free Umbria
and the Marches? Will Garibaldi attack
Rome during the absence of the Pope's
troops ? " and many more such questions,
all of which he answered to the bes,t of his
knowledge.

A handsome but melancholy -looking
young man, who had stood apart during the
conversation, with his eyes fixed gloomily
on the ground, now turned, and, with a
heavy sigh, walked down t) the edge of
the beach, and looked sadly out on the
sea.

" What is it, Antonio ? " and a hand was
laid kindly on the dirty sleeve of the blue
jacket.

" O Madre di Dio," he replied, with al-
most a sob, " I am very miserable ; we were
to be married, Francesca and I, the next
fcsta ; bat now it can't be when we hoped,
and the Santa Madonna only knows if it
ever will be."

" For what reason, my poor Antonio?"

"Ah, Sir/nor mio, I am so poor; I had
saved enough money in six years to buy a
few things for my cottage and to pay the
curato, but last week, when we had the
heavy storm, my boat went adrift and was
lost, povera barchetta. So I must take all
the money I have put aside to b:iy another,
and I must work six years more before I
can save enough to marry. My Francesca
does nothing but weep, for her father is
dead, and she is alone."

" Conqgio ! Antonio, you are a good
lad, I will help you ; how much money do
you need to make you happy ? "

The young man raised his splendid eyes

! to the kind face, and said, while a glow of

surprise and joy flushed his brown check,

' <> Sir/nnrfi .' you are very good; but it is

a great deal, it is thirty scuili ! "

" Come to n?8 to-morrow, and you sh:ill
have it."

Antonio dropped on his knees and rained
tears and kisses on the h::nd of hi- 1>;
tor, who turned away with mui-t c\ os, amid
a torrent of thanks.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

He took his little dog from the arms of
Beppo's mother, for the child had fallen into
a gentle slumber ; and, followed by thanks
and blessings, Richard Vandeleur turned, in
the gathering twilight, to walk back by the
shore to Ancona. The moon rose large and
cloudless, and threw long lines of trembling
light over the sea. The perpetual murmurs
of the sad Adriatic, mingled with the mem-
ory of the sorrows that pierce the hearts of
God's humble creature?, filled his soul with
tender melancholy, and the tears fell from
his eyes, and dropped one by one on the
soft hairs of the little spaniel that lay in his
arms.

" O suffering humanity ! " he thought,
" O poor, worn, weary hearts, that lie under
the iron heel of the oppressor, ignorant
toilers, who eat your black bread unmur-
muringly, and bow your necks under the
yoke like patient dumb beasts ! are there
aspirations in your breasts 1 are there de-
sires for better things struggling in your
simple souls t will time mature your hopes
and strengthen your confidence 1 Alas !
your country groans for deliverance, but
the time of her travail is not yet come.
More noble hearts must break, more fresh
warm blood must bathe your soil, before the
flower of freedom can spring forth and
blossom."

Perched high on a lonely rock above his
head was the convent of the Sacra Madre,
and the nuns were singing their vespers. A
voice, sweet and rich, but touched with a
strange sorrow, floated out of the grated win-
dow of the little chapel, and fell through the
still air down into the inmost depths of his
heart, a voice that brought back to him
the memory of a moonlit sea, where he
floated in a little bark, while his head rested
fondly on a gentle bosom, a pair of glorious
eyes looked love into his, and soft, tender
fingers smoothed back the brown curls from
his boyish brow. How long ago that was !
The brown hair was streaked with gray ;
he was old and worn, older than his
years; the youthful freshness and enthusi-
asm had all passed away forever ; his heart
never throbbed now with passion, only with
keen, sharp sorrow ; and that voice, and that
warm, beating heart, he feared they were
silent forever, at least, they were silent to
him. " O moon and stars ! O blue and
shining sea 1 canst thou not tell me where
she is? canst thou not lead me to her? "

But all the voice that replied to him out
of the silence of the night was the murmur
of the ea, like the plaint of invisible sor-
row?, and the sad sweet strain of the nuns
sinking their A vc. Maria.

When he reached the town the Piazza
del Mercanti was already filled with a
crowd, and the band was playing an in-
spiriting military air. Among the throng

near the music-stand was a middle-aged
woman, a sad worn face, with a large red
scar on her left cheek. She seemed restless
and anxious, regarding every one with a
curious scrutiny. As her gaze wandered
over the mass of people, it fell on the face
of Richard Vandeleur. In a moment she
was at his side.

" Filomena," he exclaimed, " where have
you come from ? "

" I have been here several days," she re-
plied sadly, " and I am now on my way
home."

" Have you heard anything ? " he in-
quired, with ill-concealed anxiety.

" Nothing," she said gloomily, " nothing ;
it is useless to continue the search ; she
cannot be living, or, if she is, she is lost
to us."

" You look HI ; come with me to the hotel,
it is very near; we can talk there unob-
served while you rest and take some sup-
per."

" I am ill, worn out, and disheartened. I
shall never find my child, never," she cried,
with emotion.

" Be calm, try to control yourself until
we reach my rooms."

She followed him to the hotel, but she
scarcely tasted the abundant supper he set
before her, preferring to tell him of all
her wanderings. For six months she had
searched in nearly every town in Italy, car-
ried hither and thither by some idle report
or suggestion, but all in vain.

" I have not found my poor Mona," she
said, " and my Benedetto has need of me.
I must go home to him, but I thought to
have taken my child with me when 1 re-
turned. It is impossible. I shall never see
her again, never ! "

" Do not despair entirely ; I still have the
hope that De Villiers will yet cross my path,
and I will then wring the secret from his
heart if it cost me my life."

A flush burned on his cheek, and the lion
looked from under his bent brows. Then a
sad, penitent expression succeeded, and he
murmured, " O my God, that hellish hate
is not yet dead within my heart ! How can I
hope for mercy when my soul is filled with
that dark passion ! "

" Can you still hope ? " said the poor
mother ; " for me all hope is gene, my
heart hopes no more," and indeed her
worn face and downcast eyes declared
it.

" Yes, I still hope," replied Mr. Vande-
leur. " I think I shall find her at last."

Opening his desk, he took from it a roll
of bank-notes, and, laying aside the thirty
scudi for Antonio, he gave the n mr.inder
to the woman. Then with many expres-
sions of kindness he sent her away, telling
her she was weary and had need of rest.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

After she had gone he opened again his
desk, and, taking from it a package of letters
addressed to him in a scrawling childish
hand, he read them over and over, pn-:--in<_ r
them to his lips and wetting them with his
tear?.

" Ah," he said, " it has needed all these
years of suffering to soften my heart suffi-
ciently to believe her innocent, and now,
when at last the conviction has dawned
upon me, it is too late to make any repara-
tion. '-But thank God, to-night 1 do feel
that she was innocent, and if she lives she
loves me still."

CHAPTER XXXHI.

SANS SOTJCI.

OOK!" exclaimed Mrs. Tremaine
to Florence one afternoon, as they
stood on tha loygia at Sans Souci, watching
the ves-els that glided by into the little
marina bslow. " Look ! there comes Fit;:-
haven's boat for the third time this week.
You must be the attraction that brings him
here. I should think Guido would ba
jealous."

' 1 an sure I don't want to see him,"
said Florence, blushing and pouting. " Mam-
ma and I were going down to the beach to
meet Guido, and now I shall not be_able to
go, because Fifczhaven will think 1 have
come to welcome him, and I am not glad
at all that he has come."

Constance sat under the shade of the
trellis with a book in her hand, and as she
listened to Florence's reply, she thought,
" She certainly loves Guido ; yes, she
loves him ! Dear child ! I will never come
between her and her happiness. If for a
little time he fancied he cared for me, it is
over now, and he is becoming very fond of
Florence ; they are always together, and
Lady Dins:norti see-us to encourage it."

At th it mxn.mt Lidy Dinsmore appeared
on the /.'/'/ ''"> her hat and parasol in her
hand. " Are you ready, Fiorenca, for your
walk 1 and are you not going, girls t We
promise! Gjido to come do*n and walk
back with him after he had finished
fishing."

" O, here they come ! " exclaimed Helen,
" Fitzhaven and Guido together, run-
ning and springing up the rocks like two
goats."

" Gaido never walks up the steps," said
Florence, " unless he has mamma on his arm ;
he prefers coining up the shorter, siee-pe-r
way ; an;l lu>, is so full of spirits here he
does not se-.'ni at all as he did in Rome."

"Pool 1 b;>y !" remarked Lady Dinsmore,
looking d.)\vn on the two young men as they
came scrambling up the steep ascent, laugh-
12

ing and shouting. " lie is free from the
restraint of the prieste* drese and their sur-^
veillance ; no wonder he is happy. I hope
he will never put his robes on a^: in."

In a moment they appeared < n the
lor;yia, Guido no longer drei-sed in b!ack,
sad and pale, but in a white lir.cn fuit,
scarlet tie, and broad-biin,u.tel t-iraw hat;
his face darkened by the tun, ar.d lii> 1 rown
hair in curly disorder. Ik- elM ii.elecd look
different from the Guido of Re me.

But for some rca?cn Ccns-t: i: j leferred
him in his gown and mat tic, rale and
sad. She did not like to MC him tin
happy, for then the the ught he vas not
pining for her. Fcolith girl ! the tl:culd
have known that thcte wire the vi ryh: } \ ie-t-t
hours cf his Hie because he was always in
her fcciety, because he was e'.en e tiieated
under the f erne reef with her, and taw her
fmly and without leMrair.t.

Fitzhaven was a irr.r.k, genial ycung
Scotchman, who wrs Breeding (he f tinner
at Sorento with Ins guaidian. He certainly
found the ecciely ctcm-icg at Srrs- Sici. if
ore could judge by the lreei:ciey with
which his litt'e let, with if:- <_:.\ sfiijed
awning and blue-thiiled sailers lowed into
the marina.

And the kdies all liked him, he was so
gay and cmuting, ar.d l.is tr at \\a> to ecm-
lortable for their evenings en the bay.
Guido and he were fafthiecds, red. ttrange
to say, if he loved Flcutco, : i d Florence
was evidently the attiaeiicr. toFi(:l,avcn,
Guido was net a bit jealous oi 1m.

Nearly three rtcEtls h: el ja;fid since
they carte to Sfns Fcvei. ;iei ,liv were
now in the middle cf July; \et i one of
them cculd realize Lew so nnh i'n.e had
gone except JMrs. Tren.aire, vLo cften
steed locking to\\?.id Rcir.e, end Urging
fcr wings Ibat the ni< Lt fly brek to (he old
palace under the Pircio. rod sit for rn heur
in the presence cf ere' :1 e s-liil v<i 1 : j ] iel.
Outwardly the teen eel h; ] ] y, il 01 ;. h Mr.
Carnegie, who watcl.cc! Icr vi.l 11 starv-
ing care, noticed a* certain i> > in
her manner.

She liked to go en the rea vl.en the wind
blew and the oiler ladies e'ncd not ven-
ture. When (ley v. eic balking en the
beach, twiee the- 1 t'ei walkt el ml 1 e ye nd her
depth, and would ha'ie ttcn diowied if
Guido, who was a or] i(al tvin in r. 1 ::d not
^ave > d her. Then fhe would ]er.-i:t in <:oing
prrilously near tin- } i 1( ' '1 ' tlC8 >

and, loeiking into ihe j.l: e'e! vnie i :.i be-low,
she would ssy, wiih (H i e- < n her

t;:rc. and a lemj>in-j; !e:ok in l.t-r ejes, " How
ucaceful all is elown iheiv ! Il veuld not
be so \crv terrible- to be rcekiil lei s-\ i p on
ihosei bliie-. wavi s" The-n Mr. C;ii
1 would put his arm around Le-i , and eh aw her
| away forcibly, saying sternly and teve-re-ly,

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

while his face grew white with some hidden
emotion, " Why will you expose yourself to
such danger ? "

" Nothing seems danger here," she would
reply, " the sea is so calm and lovely ; but
it is like the face of humanity, one does not
know what is concealed beneath."

She always preferred Mr. Carnegie's
society to any other ; she clung to him like a
spoiled, ailing child, and he was intensely
happy to be the slave of every whim.

" What an enigma Mrs. Tremaine is i "
said Madame Landel to Lady Dinsmore.
" She seems as much in love now with Mr.
Carnegie as she did last winter with the
Prince. 1 sometimes think she has no
heart."

But Lady Dinsmore, who saw further
than Madame Landel into Helen Tremaine's
character, sighed as she said, " Poor girl ! I
fear she is not happy. Yet I think she will
marry Mr. Carnegie in time."

That same evening Mr. Carnegie and
Helen walked slowly back and forth alone
on the loggia, the others having gone for a
moonlight row in Fitzhaven's boat. She
suddenly broke the silence by looking up in
his face and saying, " Mr. Carnegie, you
remember a year ago in Paris you asked
me to bs your wife ; I refused you then, but
if you still love me, and wish it, I will
marry you."

" O Helen ' " he exclaimed joyfully, " do
you mean it ? "

" Wait," she said, interrupting him, " wait
until you have heard all I have to say. I
do not mean that I would wish to marry you
just yet, not for a year or two perhaps, but
I should like to be engaged to you publicly
before we go back to Rome. Don't be sur-
prised that I speak to you in this strange
manner. You remember that day when we
were talking on the balcony in Rome ? I
told you a storm was about to burst upon
me, and when it came I should fly to you
for protection. The storm has broken over
my head, and I need the shelter of your
name, your love. But I must not, I cannot
deceive you. I love another, and I have
seen nothing beyond that passion for a long
tune. 1 hope I shall conquer it at last, and
come to love you, not as I love this other,
but enough to make you a good wife, and
to be very happy with you. Can you be
contented with that affection ? Indeed, it is
all I shall ever have to give." She looked
in his faoe with wistful eyes and quivering
lips, waiting for his reply.

There was a terrible struggle going on in
the heart of the man ; his face was ashy
pale, and his brow contracted. What she
had said seemed to wring his soul. At
length the words burst from him as though
compelled by a power superior to his own
strength and judgment.

" Helen, I love you so madly, so entirely,
that though it breaks my heart to hear you
say you cannot love me as you love this
other man, yet I will be satisfied with what
you have to offer me. I would rather have
your friendship than any other woman's
love. If my deepest devotion and tender-
ness can lighten your burden, come to my
heart and arms, as a weary, suffering ehild
to a mother. I will be to you only what
you wish, as I told you long ago. If my
name and position can lie arty protection to
you, they are yours, with my heart and
life ! "

She nestled close to him, like a wounded
bird that had at last dropped down into the
shelter of its nest, and said, as she pressed
his hand to her lips, " Dear, true heart,
I will try to be worthy of your love."
Just then a cloud passed over the moon,
and Mr. Carnegie could not see the ghastly
pallor of the 'face that nestled against his
shoulder, for a dark shadow had lallen over
both.

The next morning they announced their
engagement. Lady Dinsmcre silked as she
said she hoped they would be very happy,
but for some reason none of the congratula-
tions seemed cheerful.

No spot was ever more appropriately
named than this villa; it was indeed sansKouci,
for the days seemed to fly off without a care.
It was almost impossible to be very unhnppy
in this lovely retreat, surrounded by the
most beautiful scenes in nature. The bluest
sea, the bluest sky, the vine-clad hills, the
purple mountains, Vesuvius stretching out
his smoky hand over the, lovely xuin below,
Pompeii and Herculaneum revealing to the
eye of day and the wondering eyes of man
their long-hidden treasures of beauty and
art ; the fairy isles lying on the bosom of
the sea, like jewels dropped from the hand
of God; the white sails of the ships passing
far below ; the tiny beats, with their float-
ing pennons and gay sails ; the clear thril-
ling voice of the sailor, singing the wild
sweet songs of his lovely land, ail formed
an endless variety to interest the sad heait
and delight the wearied eye.

Lady Dinsrnore seemed to live during
these days in a sort of double existence,
and Constance often wondered Florence did
not notice her mamma's dreamy abstraction ;
but the girl was young and happy, and had
never been acquainted with sorrow. How
could she understand its signs in another?

Far below them, on a little peak, nestled
a tiny white villa. Lady Din ? more would
sit for hours on the loggia, her eyes fixed in-
tently on that spot ; sometimes, when she
believed herself to be unnoticed, the large
tears would fall slowly, and drop, one by
one, on her folded hands, and almost invol-
untarily, while an expression of ineffable

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

tenderness passed over her face, she would
murmur, " My darling, my darling ! " Tin-re
was certainly some hidden history connect-
ed with the life of this adorable woman
that had influenced her whole nature, a
memory that filled her gentle heart with
pity for all humanity.

One day she made a pilgrimage to this
little villa alone. The house was closed,
but the old gardener admitted her, wonder-
ing why this lovely lady gazed at him with
such a longing expression in her eyes. As
ghe entered, she looked >ack at the man, and.
shaking her head, she said mournfully, " No,
no, it cannot be the same ; it is so long, and
time changes one so." She crossed a little
salon, with worn, faded furniture, and, enter-
ing a small bedroom with a gay-tiled floor
and a strip of faded carpet before the white-
curtained bed, sank on her knees, and,
burying her face in the pillows, sobbed con-
vulsively, moaning between her sobs.

" After all these years it is as fresh in my
memory as though it were but yesterday.
O my darling ! ail is unchanged, but you are
no longer here. If 1 could see you for one
moment, if I could but hear you speak
in the only tones that ever thrilled my
heart ! "

The wind gently waved the white cur-
tains, a trailing vine rustled and shivered
in the sunlight, a bird sailing by on light
wing uttered a shrill joyous song ; but still
the gentle woman knelt there, forgetful of
the present. Her soul had wandered back,
far back into the silent past. She was liv-
ing over those hours that are given to us but
once in a life.

The old gardener wondered why she re-
mained so long, and looked at her almost
awe-stricken as she came out, hsr pale face
illumined with a light not of earth, and a
smile of deep peace on her lips. She had
held communion with the spirit of the past,
and a voice of thrilling sweetness had whis-
pered to her, " Patience, patience, my be-
loved ! a little longer, and thou shalt coine
to me."

And so she went back to her child and
her other lift, the life she lived before the
world, and none imagined, save Constance,
that to her each day was a double existence,
the duality of the present and the past.

So peaceful was their retreat, so retired
from the world, that they knew very little
of the political struggle that was going on
in the north of Italy. Parma, Modena, and
Milan had arisen in amass, driven out their
princes and dukes, and united themselves
under one government. The great cry of
the nation was union, union first, and
after union liberty.

They read the papers that came irregular-
ly, and afterward Guido would remain very
thoughtful for some time, and then he would

exclaim, " Poor, poor Italy ! O, if I could
do something for my suffering country ! "

At that period it was dangerous for any one
to express a patriotic sentiment, especially
any one in the service of the Pope ; and what-
ever desires failed his heart, he felt the time
was not come to act. But sometimes he would
say in confidence to Lady Dinsmore and Con-
stance, "I fed a terrible s>-ll-reproach to re-
main here in idleness and luxury when my
suffering country has need of my young life
and strong arm ; but later J will make
amends. If Garibaldi needs me, 1 am ready.
It is for the liberty of Italy I would light.
Yes, I would give my heart's blood if Italy
were free."

They were spending a few days on the
enchanting island of Capri, and one lovely
morning three small boats containing the
party started to vi?it the world-famed blue
grotto. The entrance is so low that even
in a calm ?ea it is necessary to lie quite
flat in the bottom of the boat, to prevent
coming in contact with the rocks. They
all passed in safely, with much laughing
and protesting on the part of the ladies
at the apparent impossibility of accoinodat-
ing themselves to the small space. But
when they had once entered the charmed
precincts, all sense of discomfort was for-
gotten, and simultaneous exclamations of
" What a heavenly blue ! Have you ever
seen such a blue t " arose from every lip.
" The sky that bends above Paradise, and
the waters of the River of Life," said Lady
Dinsmore.

"It must have been a, favorite haunt of
sea-nymphs, the very abode of Amphitrite,"
remarked Mrs. Tremaine.

" Fancy Neptune coming on his dolphin
to sue for the hand of the most beautiful of
all the nereids," said Mr. Carne^i .

" What an ungainly figure the old fellow
must have made, entering by that low door ! "
laughed Fitzhaven.

" O," said Florence, seriously, " you don't
think he came in as we did ! What a funny
sight, lying flat on the back of his dolphin,
or dodiring his head about, that his crown
and trident might not be injured by the
rocks ! How do you think he entered ? "
turning to Guido, who usually settled all
disputed matters.

" I will tell you all about it," replied Gui-
do. " Do you see that rock m the form of
a great chair? Well, in those irreclaimable
days that was a throne, covered with coral
nn'l precious stones. The lovely Amphitrite
sat there in her gauzy robes, her golden locks
dripping with diamonds of tin 1 :e:i. j earls on
her neck and bosom, and crystal san-
dals on her little feet. She heard afar <>lf
the horn of her lover, as he approached, all
the monsters of the de:-;> following in his
train. With one touch of his trident the

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

rocks flew open like magic doors, and he en-
tered into the presence of his beloved with
the dignity befitting a god."

" How do you know all this, Guido ? I
am sure mythology does not tell us so," said
Florence.

" No," he replied, laughing, " the birds of
the ah* and the fishes of the sea have told me.
The serpents have licked my ears as they
did those of Melampus, and I understand
the language of dumb nature." Putting
his hand into the water, he drew from the
rock a crab, and, holding it to his ear, he
said seriously, " It has spoken to me, and
told me this grotto is still visited by nymphs
and angel's." He stood up in the boat as he
spoke, and Florence, in return for his compli-
men f , dipped her white hand into the water
and flung some in his face. Starting back
to evade it, he lost his balance, and before a
helping hand could be stretched out he fell
heavily back ward, his head striking a project-
ing rock as he went down. Constance caught
a glimpse of his white face, white as carved
marble, as he sank in the blue depths, and
a piercing cry escaped from her livid lips,
a cry of such anguish that it revealed her
secret to all, " O my God, he is dead ! "

" No, no," said Mr. Carnegie, " he is only
stunned by the force of the blow."

Two sailors had already gone down, and
in a moment they appeared, supporting him
between them. With some effort they laid
him in the boat, his head on Constance's
lap ; his eyes were closed, and indeed he
did look as though life had left him.

" His heart beats," said Mr. Carnegie, lean-
ing forward and unfastening his waistcoat.

Constance sat as pale and still as he, his
cold hand clasped in hers, and her eyes de-
vouring his face.

" Oh ! " said Florence, bursting into tears,
" it was my fault ; if I had not thrown the
water, he would not have fallen ! "

" Hush, darling," said Lady Dinsmore,
with lips so white and trembling they could
scarcely frame the words ; " let us hope it is
nothing serious, he will be better in a mo-
ment."

While she spoke, Guido opened his eyes
and looked around rather confused ; then
putting his hand to his head, they noticed
his hair was wet with blood. Constance
gave a little cry of horror, and pressed her
handkerchief to it.

"It is nothing," said Madame Landel,
parting his hair, " nothing but a scratch."

Guido did not speak ; he lay pale and
silent, looking into the face bending above
him. There was no longer any disguise, a
moment of danger had revealed what they
both had tried to conceal.

They went out of the grotto more quietly
than they had entered, their spirits subdued
by the little adventure. Guido tried to in-

sist on walking from the boat to the hotel,
but Lady Dinsmore would not move until
she had seen him placed in a chair, and car-
ried by two sailors. It was true he was
very weak and very wet, and his head ached
terribly, but he was, nevertheless, very
happy.

The next morning he was as well and gay
as ever, so after breakfast the younger mem-
bers of the party climbed to the top of a
ruined fortress. There, in a little hut built
of loose stones, blocks of marble, and broken
capitals, they found an old man, .so old and
withered that he too seemed a fragment of
the remains of the past. On the summit of
the hill was a rustic Campo Santo, and
within the crumbling fortress a few graves,
overgrown with brambles and deadly night-
shade. The old man hobbled after them,
gazing with a, sort of awe into the faces of
the lovely girls, who, in their pure white
dresses, seemed to him like angels, who had
alighted for one moment among the ruins of
past grandeur.

" What a contrast," said Fitzhaven aside
to Guido, " these lovely girls and the old
man, age and youth, the past and the
present, hideousness and beauty ! 1 wish I
were an artist, that I might make a sketch."

" Why are these graves apart from the
others?" inquired Guido of the old man,
pointing to the forlorn-locking mounds.

"Oh!" he replied, "suicides are buried
here ; you should know it by these," touch-
ing with his stick the nightshade.

"Perche?" asked Fitzhaven, with curi-
osity.

"Perche, Signore," said the old man ; " after
our bodies are dead they return to the earth,
and spring up in one form or another; look
how all the rest of the graves are covered
with flowers, but never a flower grows over
the guilty, only brambles and poisonous
weeds. Come with me, and I will show you
the contrary on the grave of the innocent."

He led them to a mound under a graceful
acacia. " Here," he said, " lies one who
was as fair as she with the dark hair," point-
ing to Constance. " Ah, Santa Madonna !
she died fifty years ago, and I have watched
this spot ever since." He uncovered his head
ar-d knelt reverently, pressing some white
azalias to his lips.

" Signor mio ! how I loved her ! every
one of tliese flowers are a part of her, and
I love them. I shelter them iroin the
wind and sun, and water them with my
tears. She was too young to die, only six-
teen, and so lovely. I used to think she
must be like the Blessed Madonna, her smile
was so sweet, and she was so holy." There
was a pathos in the old man's voice, a real
grief in his quivering tones, that filled their
eyes with tears as they turned awr.y.

" What strong contrasts there arc in life ! "

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

said Mrs. Tremaine. " This old man stand-
ing among the ruins, so old that he seems
never to have been young;, talking to us of
his buried hope?, buried fifty years ago, and
we, his listeners, on the verge of life, with
the dawn of hope in our hearts, listen, and
wonder at the endurance of love."

They stood for a moment looking out over
the broad blue sea that surrounded them.
The free morning breeze fanned their
cheeks and nestled in their hair ; it spoke
of the youth and freshness of nature, the
eternal renewing of all but man's desires
and joys. Yes, the fresh wind and the blue
sea, danced and frolicked in the glad sun-
light as it did more than eighteen hundred
years ago, when the tyrant Caesar looked
over the lovely scene from the summit of his
proud palace, that now lay in crumbling
ruins, the grave of despair, ambition,
love, and hope.

They filled the old man's hand with silver,
and, turning, went down the mountain,
Constance leaning on the arm of Guido, and
Florence dancing before them like a sun-
beam, sending back bright smiles and gay
words to Fitzhaven, who followed.

Youth, bsauty, and love, hand in hand,
descended to the valley below, leaving the
old man to watch, as he had done for fifty
years, the grave of his dead love among
the ruins of a long-vanished glory.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE ROMANCE OF LADY DINSMORE'S LIFE.

GUIDO had gone to Rome for a few days
to sing at the feast of the Assumption,
and they were all mourning over his absence.
Constance did not say the days seemed long
and dull without him, but she thought so
every hour in the twenty-four, and Lady
Dinsmore was always saying, " I wish Guido
were back, I cannot tell you how I miss
him."

Then Florence would say, laughing, but
with affected displeasure, " I am really
glad he is gone, 1 am so jealous of him. I
am sure mamma loves him better than she
does me."

" Selfish child, are you not willing I should
give a little affection to this poor boy, who
has neither mother nor sister? " And then,
when Florence was out of hearing, she
would say, " I think with all the dear girl's
apparent indifference, she loves Guido, and
I know he is very fond of her. If they
really love each other, I shall never separate
them ; she shall be his wife, she has wealth
enough for both."

Constance would smile quietly to herself,
and think, " Dear mother, you are a little

blind ; cannot you see that Florence is be-
coming every day more intere-tcd in Fitz-
haven ? " But we are apt to think what we
wi-h will be, and Lady Dinsmore loved
Guido with a deep affection, and would
have been happy to have called him her
son.

For some weeks a sure, but almost imper-
ceptible, change had passed over the gentle
woman. None noticed it as Constance did,
for no one patched her so closely, and be-
fore no other person did .'he throw aside the
veil that hid her inmost heart. Her child,
ignorant of the signs of sorrow, only thought
mamma a little weak and languid, a sort
of debility that would pass away with the
warm weather. But Constance knew a
hidden corroding grief, in some way con-
nected with this spot, was consuming the
strength and life of her adored friend.

One evening they were all on the sea
except Lady Dinsmore and Constance,
who preferred remaining on one of the
heights in the garden of the villa, where
there was a rustic seat under some orange-
trees.

The nightingales sang ; the air was heavy
with perfume ; the sea flowed at their feet,
golden with sunset, overshot with silver
rays from the rising moon. The voice of a
marinaro singing the songs of Santa Lucia,
while he mended his nets on the f-hore,
mingled with the clear laugh of Florence, as
the gay little boat, with its merry party,
pushed off toward the purple islands.

Lady Dinsmore sat by the side of Con-
stance, her head resting on the shoulder of
the girl, who lately was her inseparable
companion. Both were silent. Constance
was thinking of a low marble slab, above
which the tall rank grass nodded and
rustled in the evening air ; a row of dark
linden-trees, and the round yellow moon
floating above the spire of Hehnsford church ;
an old man with long white hair and weary
folded hands, a voice feeble and gentle,
saying tenderly, " My child ! " then a
younger face, with glorious dark eyes, and
a smile of deep affection upturned to hers,
as he lay pale and exhausted with his head
in her lap, while their boat floated out from
the grotto of mystic blue.

O, how happy she had been since that
morning when a blessed accident had iv-
vealed to her the strength of her cwn love
and the heart of the one she worshipped I
Although no words had been exchanged
between them, a thousand little acts and the
language of the eyes had toll her all she
wished to know. She felt Guido was only
waiting until his return from Rome to ask
her to become his wife. Now s-he had re-
solved to put aside every barrirr of pride
and the world's opinion, to unite her des-
tiny to the onlv man she could ever love,

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

her heart was lightened of a heavy burden,
and she was happy. Absorbed in her own
pleasant musings, she was almost unmindful
of the presence of her friend until a long-
drawn, weary sigh caused her to look up.
Lady Dinsmore's eyes were filled with tears,
and the sad mouth quivered with the effort
of self-control. Gently putting her arm
around her shoulder, and drawing her a lit-
tle nearer, Constance said, with a voice of
touching interest, " You are unhappy ; will
you not tell me the cause ? Perhaps my j
sympathy may be of some comfort to you."

" Ah, my dear, I have long wished to tell
you, and yet I hesitate to speak of an
episode in my life that is passed and for-
gotten by all. For all who were actors in
that drama are sleeping with the secret shut j
close in their still hearts, and I too thought j
I had buried it so deep that resurrection |
were impossible ; but to-night it rises before |
me with all the force and vividness of the j
hour in which 1 said, ' I shall live no more,
for life is dead within me.' Yes, my dear,
I will open to you this book of the past, and
we will read its pages together, and then
we will close it again forever, and only you
will know how I have suffered, and that my
heart has bled as well as yours.

" My mother was a Vandeleur, a cold,
proud woman, entirely devoted to the world
and its fashion. My father, Lord Radcliffe,
was one of the most dissipated men in all
England ; warm-hearted and generous, but
extravagant and unscrupulous to a fear-
ful extent ; loving society, his club, racing,
and the hunt better than his wife or home.
I was the only fruit of this ill-assorted
union ; my father never cared for me because
he wished in my place a son ; and my
mother less, because she was too selfish to
love anything but herself, or, perhaps, be-
cause I was the child of the man she did not
love on the day of her marriage, and whom
she had come to despise and hate long be-
fore my birth. What ever was the cause I
know not, but, as soon as I was old enough
to understand, I felt that my mother did not
love me. Nay, her entire neglect showed she
disliked me. In my infancy I was given to
a nurse ; when a little older, to a French
governess of rather doubtful morals, un-
scrupulous, indolent, and insincere. Instead
of instructing me and developing what was
good in my character, she spent most of her
time at her toilet, or in reading French
novels of a most questionable kind. I can-
not describe to you how lonely, neglected,
and unconsjenial my childhood was, nor
how sadly demoralizing the influences that
surrounded my early youth.

" When I was about sixteen, my mother,
discovering that I was pretty, decided that
I rhould bo very accomplished ; then com-
menced a system of drudgery, by which I

was expected to acquire all the knowledge
I should have gained during the yeais of
neglect and indolence passed umler the
charge of my unfaithful governess. Dancing,
music, singing, riding, and drawing masters
were crowded upon me until my Hie became
a burden and my health began to give way
under this constant application. Then, as
my voice promised to be wonderful, my
mother concluded to take me abroad and
place me under the tuition of the best
master Italy could produce. I longed for a
change. I was restless and unsatisfied with
my life. In my heart was a constant yearn-
ing for love and companionship. No one
understood me, no one sympathized with
me. I had a warm, passionate nature,
tenderly alive to beauty and nobility of
character. I had formed my ideal of manly
perfection, as all young girls do, and it was
very different from my father and the friends
who surrounded him. I saw that wealth
and title did not bestow happiness, and I
early determined, if I married, to marry a
man I could respect for his talents or his
nobility of nature.

" I often fancied myself in a vine-clad cot-
tage, hidden in the bosom of a murmuring
forest, where the birds sang all day and the
waters leaped from rock to rock sparkling in
the sunlight ; where the floAvcrs bloomed in
never-fading beauty, untrodden by any foot
save the wild gazelle or the timid hare ; and
there with my ideal lover I thought it would
be sweet to dream away my life. 1 wns so
weary, even at that age, of my tun windings,;
the world and the fashion thereof, the pomp
and splendor, the hypocrisy and wickedness,
the coldness and hollowness of every tender
relation of life, disgusted and disenchanted
me ; and then I longed for something good
and true, something pure and calm, far from
the excitement and lever of the world.

"I was scarcely seventeen when, after
spending the winter in Florence, we went to
the baths of Lucca for the summer ; there
I was placed under the charge of a talented
young master, a Roman, who was spending
the summer in that lovely lesort. 1 need
not tell you how noble, handsome, rnd
fascinating he was. Guido is strangely like
him, nd, stranger still, he bears the same
name, Guido Bernardo. Now you can
understand my interest in him, and my ill-
concealed agitation the first time I heard
his voice, and the first time my eyes fell upon
him. It seemed as though the fhost of my
long-buried love arose and stood before me.

" Scarcely had we met when we loved
each other. I was young and lovely, he was
young, handsome, and talented ;' anel such a
noble, gentle nature has never since crossed
my path until I met Guido, this youth who
so strangely reminds me of my io'-t elr.rling.
O Constance, I wish I could describe to

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

you the blissful hours I passed in his so- !
ciety. I was passionately fond of music,
and his voice filled every pulse of my j
being. When he sang, I worshipped him. J
have heard no music since but that voice,
it has filled every chamber of my life. I
hear it always, above the day's discordant
sounds ; at midnight, when all is silent ; in
the morning, mingled with the shrill songs
of birds and tin murmuring of the breeze,
with the laugh of my child, the voice of my
friends, in every place, in every hour ; and
the roar and din of life marreth not its
melody. I shall hear it again when, some
blessed morning, the golden gates shall open
to admit me, into the eternal city; amonw
the angels who sing before the throne I
shall know him by his voice. God had
need of him to complete his heavenly choir,
and so he took him, leaving me to long for-
ever for the time when I shall hear him sing
again.

" The summer passed away in blissful
happiness to both. I saw him often, for
there was little restraint on my life. I was
left entirely to my governess, and she was
much too iJIe to watch me ; and my mother,
too proud and cold herself to love any one,
much less a parson beneath her in social
position, never dreamed her daughter could
commit such a folly, or that there could bo
any danger in exposing her to the society
of a young man, of whom older and wiser
hearts had owned the superior attractions.
I saw him flattered and welcomed every-
where, and it was said a Russian princess
was dying of love for him. I cared nothing
for the diiFerence in our social position. I
only knew I loved him, and I determined
from the first that nothing should sepa-
rate us.

" In the autumn, after spending a month
in Venice with a large fashionable party j
of which he wa< the greatest attraction, we
went to Komi for the winter, that I still
might have the benefit of his instruction.
Our delightful* meetings were somewhat in-
terrupted, and I only saw him during the
hours of my lessons, or when I met him in
society. Perhaps my mother began to
suspect thit in public he was too often at j
my sida, f jr her m inner changed toward !
him ; she was colder and less cordial, and ,
my governess was ordered always to re- !
main in the room during my lessons, j
Sometimes, whan my mother had gone out j
on her round of fashionable calls, I would ;
enjoy a few blissful moments alone with !
him while the French woman lounged in j
her room ancl read her romances. On one
of these rare and too happy occasions, when
we believed we were safe from intrusion,
we forgot to sing, as we often did, and fell
into an absorbing conversation, of which
protestations of eternal love formed the

topic. Like Paulo and Francesca da Rimi-
ni, we read no more that day, but 1, stand-
ing by Guldo, with my chevk resting on his
dark hair, and encircled by his arm, li
with trembling joy to that old, old story
that will never end while the stars of the
morning sing together.

" The door opened suddenly, and my
mother, pale with rage, stood before us ; her
white lips uttered no words, but her eyes
burned with a terrible fury that seemed to
scorch and Vither me. Taking me by
the arm with so strong a grasp that her
delicate fingers left purple marks on my
flesh, she led me to my room, and, closing
the door upon me, turned the key and left
me alone, a prey to the deepest anguish.
Then she returned to Guido, who, as soon
as she entered his presence, calmly and
simply told her the story of our love, and
implored her to sanction our union. She
listened to him in haughty silence, and
when he had finished, she rang for the
servant to open the door, and, without a
word, turned and left him.

" For a few days 1 was kept a close pris-
oner in my room, seeing no one but my
mother's maid, a hard cruel woman, from
whom I learned that my governess had
been sent away immediately, and t-he for
the present was to wait upon me.

" I sent many messages to my mother, a. c k
ing for an interview, that by my entreaties
I might soften her heart if she were capable
of compassion ; but she refused to see me.
I felt keenly my separation from Guido,
even for a few days, but 1 resolved it should
not be long. After a week of imprisonment
I was allowed the freedom of the house.
One day, as I was passing through the
corridor alone, a young Italian .-crvant,
who was very fond of me, approached, with
her finger on her lip, and, drawing from
her bosom a letter, smilingly placed it in
my hand and passed on. I flew to my
room and tore it open. As I expected, it
was from Guido. I covered it with tears
and kisses before I read it, and tlien I de-
voured every word. It was clear, concise,
and truthful". He said he was suffering
deeply from the separation, as he knew I
must be ; that life without me was but an
intolerable burden, and tjhat it was useless
ever to hope for the sanction of my mother
to our union. Was 1 willing to renounce
wealth and position, to be his wife at once ?
If so, he had made all necc^ury arrange-
ments, as he felt there was no time to l<>.-c
in putting his plans into effect. Tin- next
evening, if I could escape from the house
unobserved at seven o'clock, 1 should find a
woman waiting at the corner of the (li>t
vicolo, near our horse, who would conduct
me to a carriage a little farther off. The
coachman had received instructions to drive

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

as quickly as possible to a little chapel in
an obscure street, where he would await me
with a priest to perform the ceremony ; we
should then leave immediately for Naples.
He added that I need not wait to take
my wardrobe with me, but the servant who
brought the letter would arrange to put a few
necessary articles into the carriage. I did
not for one moment hesitate in accepting
his offer. During the day I found an oppor-
tunity of filling a travelling-bag with some
clothing, jewelry, and toilet articles, which
the girl carried from my room in a bundle
of soiled linen.

" A few moments before seven, while my
dragon was dressing my mothei's hair for a
dinner-party, 1 stole out of my room, in
a gray travelling-dress, with a thick veil
over my face, through the corridor, by my
mother's door, that mother whom I never
saw again, and who never forgave her only
child, down the long stone stairs out into
the twilight, where I found the woman wait-
ing for me. An hour afterward I lay on my
husband's breast, sobbing with joy, while
two swift horses bore us away from Rome
as rapidly as possible. Immediately after
reaching Naples we were married again by
a Protestant clergyman, and Guide's first
act was to send a copy of the certificate to
my mother, to which we received no reply."

CHAPTER XXXV,

HOW IT ENDED.

attempt was made to molest us, and
after spending a few weeks in 'Naples,
we selected for our home yonder little white
villa on the point below. There I passed
the first days of my blissful married life,
days that, when I look back on them, seem
like a dream of paradise. Guido had re-
ceived an order to write an opera for the
principal theatre of Bologna, and after the
first months of delightful idleness he be-
gan to work in earnest. All his morn-
ings were passed in writing, while I sat by
his side fabricating dainty little pieces of
embroidery ; for a blessed truth had dawned
upon me, another link would one day unite
us more closely in our passionate idolatry.
After his day's labor was finished, our after-
noons were spent in blissful nothingness;
he read a little, while I lay in his arms, my
cheek resting on his bosom, listening to
some sweet Ilalian poem, which seemed
sweeter from his lips. But the book was
often laid aside, while he pressed me to his
heart, and looked into my eyes with a love
that never for one moment wearied or
changed. Sometimes, in the warm days, he
would fall asleep with his head on my lap,

while I gently fanned him, and smoothed
back the dark waves of hair from his white
foreheadc He never opened his eyes upon
me but with a smile ; and I never in all
those days saw a shadow for one moment
cross his face. How happy we were all
through the days of summer !

" When the sun began to decline we lived
upon the sea ; floating with our single rower
from island to island, from purple peak to
more remote headland, gliding along under
the rocky walls over the lapis lazuli sea,
listening to the drowsy murmur of the waves
as they lapped the shore, or the far-off song
of the boatmen. Sometimes Guido sang to
me whi! my head rested on his bosom, but
oftener we sat in silent rapture looking into
each other's faces. O my darling, my
darling ! But the evening came when we
floated for the last time on the tranquil
sea. I remember it as though it were but
yesterday. It was nearly sunset, and we
stood on the little loggia overlooking the
ea ; as he folded a light shawl around me,
he raised my face for his usual caress, a
kiss en my forehead, both eyes, and my lips,
which he called the sign of the cross.
' Now,' he said, ' darling, after to-day you
wili walk no more down these long steps to
the shore, it is too fatiguing for you ; the
boatmen must carry you in a chair.' I only
laughed, assuring him I was as strong and
well as ever, and not tired at all. 'You
are a delicate little thing, and must be cared
for,' he replied, almost carrying me down
the steps and putting me into the boat;
then, arranging the cushion so that I might
half recline, he sat at my feet and laid his
head in my lap.

" The boatman pushed off, and we glided
out silently from the shore. After a few
moments' thought, Guido looked up and said,
'Darling, do you know this is the 20th, and
we have been married nine monf hs t ' ' No,'
I replied, ' Angela mio,' that was my pet
name for him, ' I should have said it was
but one month, the time has passed so
swiftly.' ' There is only one thought that
ever saddens me,' he said, ' and that is be-
cause our life at the longest wili be all too
short for our happiness.' I laid my hand
on his lips, and my eyes filled with tears.
' Poor little darling ! ' he said, wiping them
away, ' we will not speak of that any more.
Do you know to-day I have finished the
third act of my opera t another month, and
then it will be done, and after that I shall
take a long rest ' ; then he pinched my fin-
gers, that lay in his, and whispered something
that brought the hot blood to my cheek.
Another month, yes, another month. Again
we fell into silence. I was thinking of tender
little baby-fingers touching my neck and
bosom, of a little cooing voice, and soft dark
eyes looking into mine with the same ex-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

pression of my husband. Suddenly I
glanced down at the face in my lap, and to
my surprise he was sleeping, sleeping
rather heavily, I thought, and with a hot
flush on his cheek. ' Poor dear,' I said
softly, while I laid a shawl over him, ' he is
so tired.' I pressed his hand to my cheek ;
' how strange ! it is burning like one with
fever, but then the day has been so warm.'

" The sunset faded out of the sky, and the
moon rose serenely, and fell white and soft
as the light from the wing of an angel on
the dear sleeping face upturned to mine.
How closely I watched him ! The white
forehead, around which clustered waves of
damp dark hair ; the straight, delicate eye-
brows ; the nose as perfect as chiselled
marble ; the silky dark mustache slightly
shading the mouth, around which lingered
the smile of love, how perfect he was in
his young lithe manhood ! Endymion, as
he slept on Mount Latmos, never was more
beautiful, and Di^na never gazed at the
youth more worshipfully than I, as I bent
in silence and rapbure over my cherished
idol.

" I wondered why he slept so heavily, and
why the fresh evening air did not cool his
hot cheek and burning hands ; but still I
forbore to awaken him, until I could endure
my cramped position no longer. He started
up confusedly, putting his hand to his head.
' My darling,' he said, with real sorrow in
his voice, ' why have you allowed me to
sleep so long ? You have fatigued yourself
holding my head, and you have covered me
with your shawl. I fear you have taken cold.'
I assured him I was neither tired nor chilly,
but expressed my anxiety about his hot
hands and flushed face.

" ' I think I am not quite well,' he replied,
' I may have a little fever' ; and then he gave
the boatman the order to turn toward home.

" We lingered a moment on the shore and
looked out on the sea. Sudden clouds had
gathered and covered the face of the moon.
' We shall have a storm before morning,'
he said, as he put his arm around me and
led me up the steps.

" All that night I sat by the bed of my
darling, and watched him as he moaned and
tossed in the heavy stupor and half-delirium
of the first stages of fever. And all night
long the tempest raved and roared around
our little home, that had never known a
shadow or a storm before. On the black
wings of the wind and the tempest the
darkness came that spread pall-like over all
my life. With the early dawn I awoke the
servant and sent for the nearest physi-
cian. The storm had passed away, the sun
shone, and the birds sang, and so I thought
the cloud that had gathered around me
through the gloom of the night would also
disperse ; but it never did.
13

" Day after day the fever burned and con-
sumed him. I think in all the time he did
not fully recognize me, but his hand scarcely
left mine, and my bosom was the pillow
for his dear head. For nine days I s;it al-
ways by his bed, watching with agoni/ed
anxiety every change, every movement,
every pulse-beat. But, my dear child, I
cannot linger over this ; it tears my heart to
shreds. The ninth day he died in my arms,
his precious head on my bosom ; for one
moment he knew me and smiled in m\

a smile of childish sweetness and peace;
then, raising his weak hand upward, hi
closed, and he breathed no more. It was
night when he died, and for years after co
day broke for me.

" They took me insensible from his bed,
and all through the hours of darkness I slept,
mercifully overcome by a weariness and ex-
haustion too profound to admit the reali/a-
tion of my bereavement. In the morning I
was again by his side, looking at the belo\ id
face over which Death had already scattered
his pale lilies. The sea flowed on as free
as ever, the birds sang, the morning breeze
waved the drooping vines under which we
had so often stood. O, how could nature
rejoice after such a calamity !

" For several days I rested immobile, numb,
unconscious. Then the thought dawned
upon me that soon would be given into
my keeping another life, a life derived from
him, and that I must arouse myself from this
stupor for the sake of my child, his child.
During these hours of my bereavement I
began to long for a woman's sympathy, a
woman of my own nation and tongue, on
whose kind breast I might lean my head
during the hours of suffering that were com-
ing upon me. I knew a dear old Engli.-h
lady in Rome, a friend of my father's family.
I thought if I could but reach her I should
be safe, during my illness, under her care.
Then another anxiety, which I had never
known in all my life, was thrust upon me,

poverty. After my husband's burial the
little he had saved by economy, and which
he hoped to increase with the price received
for his opera, was exhausted, and there re-
mained little or nothing for my future ex-
penses. This decided me to hasten at once
to Rome, where there were many English
residents who knew my father, and who
'would assist me in my hour of need.

" I reached Rome one night, a fortnight
after my husband's death, ill, alone, and al-
most penniless. I went immediately ro ;i
little apartment my physician had written
to engage, and that night my child was
born. My journey had brought on a pre-
mature illness. For three weeks after I was
delirious with fever, and knew nothing that
passed during that time. When at last I
crept back to life and consciousness^ and

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

asked for my child, that I remembered to
have looked upon but for a brief moment, I
was told by the woman who nursed me that
he had died seven days after his birth, and
that they had buried him in the Campo San-
to, where I could see his little grave when I
was better.

" And that was all ; in less than one year
the life of my life was ended. A childless j
widow at eighteen, I stood on the brink of !
life, but behind me were long, long shadows. |
My husband had no family, only one sister
who was a nun, and I did not even know by |
what name she was called, nor in what con-
vent she lived. There was nothing to hold
me to earth. If my child had lived, my
little dark-eyed darling, I could have taken
up again the burden of life and endured it
for his sake ; but he had gone to paradise
with his father, and forever they were both
calling me to come to them. O, how I
longed for heaven, there was so much of me
there ! It was early in the season, Rome
was empty, and my old English friend was
still absent. 1 had sold my last article of
jewelry to pay the expenses of my illness
and my baby's burial ; the proceeds of that
were nearly gone, and in a few days I must
stand face to face with actual want. Then
the thought of writing to my father occurred
to me. J told him of my sorrow, my loneli-
ness, my poverty, and entreated him to send
me enough money to enter a convent, that
being my only desire. Some time passed
away, and I was almost in despair of receiv-
ing a reply, when one evening as I sat in my
miserable little room alone, breaming, as I
always did, of my lost happiness, some one
knocked at my door. A moment after I was [
folded in my father's arms, and we were i
weeping together. Then, for the first time j
in my life, I felt I had a father.

" Immediately after receiving my letter,
which he said nearly broke his heart, he left
England to bring me home. After visiting
my child's grave, and placing a little marble
cross over it, I left the spot indifferent to
everything; my heart was buried in the
grave of my Guido, and all the world was
the same to me.

" When we reached Radcliffe Castle my
mother sternly refused to see me, or to re'-
ceive me into the same house with herself.
Lord Iladcliffe and your father were college
friend?, and through the interest of my
mother he had just been appointed to the
living of Helmsford. There my father took
me after our arrival in England.

" My sad history touched the heart of your
angelic mother, to whom I at once clunw
with a sisterly affection. It was that dear
and gentle friend who helped me to reunite
again the broken threads of my life, and
taught me new duties and new interests.
You can now understand my friendship for

your father and my affection for you. For
four years I lived at Helmsford Rectory,
when the sudden death of my mother, who
never forgave me, enabled me to return to
my childhood's home. My father, who was
always after my trouble most kind and gen'
tie to me, installed me mistress of Radclifle
Castle, where I lived quietly and tranquilly
until Lord Dinsmore asked my hand in
marriage. He was a good, noble man,
many years older than myself. He knew
the history of my love, and had wept with
me over its gad ending ; he also knew I
could not love him as I had loved my
Guido, but he was content with my friend-
ship and wifely duty. We were quietly
happy together ; and when Florence was
born something of the olden joy awoke in
my heart. For often when I closed my eyes
I would fancy it was the little dark-eyed
darling that had nestled in my bosom for a
moment, the child of my Guido."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

I HAVE LOVED YOU FROM THE FIRST.

WHEN Lady Dinsmore had finished,
Constance, who was quietly weeping,
gently pressed the hand that lay in hers,
and said in a voice of the deepest sympathy,
"I knew you had suffered; one who has
pined under a malady knows well the si^ns
of the same disease in another. I wish I
could do something to soothe and alleviate
your sorrow ; however, sometimes the re-
cital of our suffering lightens a little its
weight."

" Yes, I have often wished to speak to you
of those days, since I have been here in this
spot, looking at the same scenes and hear-
ing every hour the name that death has
made sacred to rne. I am glad I have told
you. I have rolled away the stone and let
the stagnant waters flow free ; who knows
but in their course they will refresh and cool
the burning soil of my heart 1 Sometimes,
as I stand here and look en the same bay
where our little boat floated more than
twenty-five years ago, on the same golden
sunlights, the same silver moonlights flood-
ing the waves, the same groves of olive
and orange, and the same yellow vineyards, I
think nothing but myse.!f has changed; for
the girls, as they gather their figs, chant the
old, monotonous song, am! the fisherman
plies his oar and sings afar off.

' And the stately ships go on to their haven under the hill,
But for the touch of a vanished hand, and the souuil
of a voice that is still <. '

Through all these years I have thought of
him, never, never forgetting him. And he
knows how I have tried to do my duty, and

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

be patient until I could go to him. If there
is anything in my nature strong and noble,
tender and charitable, it is the memory of
him that has taught me to be so. For years
I looked into every face with a profound pity,
thinking that under the disguise each one
wore must be hidden an aching heart, that
every one bore about with him the burden
of a recent sorrow. But at last I learned to
discriminate between real and affected suf-
fering; I learned to be gentle with the
nature disappointment had imbittered, or
inconstancy and deception hardened, always
remembering that few have had the example
of such a perfect character, and the soften-
ing influence of such a love, made holy by
death and sorrow."

She arose as she spoke, and, raising her
eyes upward, she said, " To-night the stars
are shining in the heavens that must be his
blessed home, and I am waiting here on
earth, contented to see each sun set and
each moon rise, because I know that each
brings me one day nearer to him. Now, my
dear child, forgive me if I have saddened
you ; I will go to my room ; I need to be
alone. I hope they will not remain too late
on the bay, for the evening air is chilly."

They walked up the garden path between
the rows of shining ilex, the cricket chirped
in the fragrant acacia, the perfume of the
orange-blossom fell faint on the air, and
the moon flooded the hills with sweet, pen-
sive light. All was silence around them, as
Constance kissed Lady Dinsmore, and bade
her good night.

"I hope she will live over her past joy in
her dreams," she thought, as she leaned
above the balcony, and looked out on the
bay toward the sapphire isles, where the
little boat floated, a speck on the silvery
sea.

A hurried step on the walk below made
her start and turn, and in a moment Guidb
was at her side. Whether it was the sur- !
prise and joy of seeing him at that moment ;
or because the history of Lady Dinsmore's ,
love had softened her heart she never knew,
but before she was aware of it sKe was in his
arms, pressed close to his heart, and sobbing
with her cheek resting against his.

" Be calm, my dnrlinir," he said, softly
smoothing her hair, " be calm, and listen
to me, for T have much to say."

She raised her happy eyes to his, and
sighed, " O Guido, I am so glad to see you !
I feared all sorts of danger for you."

He took her face between both his hands,
and, turning her head so that the moonlight
fell full upon brow and lips, he said, " Con-
stance, do you love me ? "

The white lids drooped for a moment as
she replied, " Yes, Guido, I love you; have
you not known it from the first ? I have
loved you from the first."

" Thank God," he said, pressing her hands
to his lips, " thank God that you l,fir<- love-l
me ; but is your love strong enough to bear
the test to which I shall put it ''. "

" Yes," she replied, firmly, " it is strong
enough to bear any test. Nothing can
change it now."

II- smiled fondly, still his face was very
sad and serious. " Let me begin from the
first day I saw you. I loved you then, as I
love you now, with the first, the only love
of my life, and I knew I should always love
you. A great barrier separated us, and
prevented my telling you of my love. I
firmly resolved to hide my secret in my
heart and never confess it, when t!
pression of your face as you bent over me
that day in the grotto revealed to me the
strength of your affection. Then I de-
termined to speak. I deterred it until my
return, as I wished to make one more effort
in Rome to discover a secret, and remove
if possible one obstruction to our union.
But I have failed, as I always have, rmd
now, my darling, I cannot keep silent, my
passion is too strong for me ; but tha barrier
still exists, a barrier so high I fear your
love cannot level it."

He bowed his head, a hot flush burned
on his cheek, and his eyes filled with tears.
" It is not alone the barrier of povci ty, it is
the barrier of shame. Constance, I am
a foundling of Santo Spirito, and I fear a
child of sin. My birth, my parentage, is a
mystery which Go:l alone can reveal. I
had hoped it might have been poverty alone
that abandoned me, but I have reason to
know it was not poverty; what could it have
been but the desire to conceal disgrace ?
I have told you all. I have told you the
worst. Can you love one so unworthy ? "

" Guido," she replied, looking in his face
with eyes that revealed all her lo\
knew it, I knew it long ago." Then she
told him of the conversation she had over-
lie :inl in the Sala di Dante, and her decision
at that time; "but now." she said. " all is
changed, I find my love stronger than my
pride. Believe me, you would be no dearer
to me if you were the son of a king. I love
you for yourself, yourself alone. I am the
mistress of my own acts, my own future.
Why should I sacrifice my happiness for
the base and sordid opinion of the world ?
Is a diamond the less a diamond because it
is imbosomed in meaner soil ? Is the ivy
een because it grows from ruin and
rubbish? No, Guido, no; you are Nature's
child, but God has dowered you with a
greater inheritance than name or wealth,
lie has given you genius, and the true
nobiyty of nature ; you are his child, and I
am proud of you."

lie clasped her in his arms, calling her by
every endearing name, mingled with fervent

100

WOVEN OF MANY . THREADS.

thanksgiving. It was a moment of rapture
for both. At last they bad found what they
had so nearly missed. And each, looking
in the face of the other, wondered how
they had kept silent so long, when their
hearts had been united from the first hour
of their meeting.

As they paced slowly back and forth
under the light of moon and stars, with
clasped hands and eyes brimming with love,
the night seemed filled with a new peace
and beauty. All was serene around, above,
beneath, and from the happy heart of each
went up through the still air toward the
angel sentinels on the battlements of para-
dise the watchword of peace.

Lady Dinsmore lay on her sofa in a white
dressing-gown ; the door was open on the
loggia, and the only light in the room was
the moonlight. She heard the clear voice
of Florence, as she came up the steps,
mingled with the deeper tones of Fitzhaven.
" Lately they are always together," she
thought. " It is strange, but 1 did hope she
would have loved Guido. I should have
been very happy to have seen her bis
wife. However, it is evidently not to be.
Fitzhaven is in every way, as far as the
world sees, the more suitable husband for
her. Yet cannot tell why, but I would
rather she had loved Guido."

At that moment a slight, white-robed
figure slipped into the room, dropping her
hat and shawl as she came. Her mother
held out her arms, and the girl flew to her,
laughing and almost sobbing in the same
breath.

" Dear, dear mamma, have I done wrong ?
but I am so happy. Fitzhaven has told me
he loves me, and has asked me to be his
wife, and, mamma dear, I have promised ;
have I done wrong to promise without con-
sulting you ; but it was so unexpected, and
I like him so much, I could not wait until
I had asked you if it was best ; have I done
wrong, mamma ? "

Lady Dinsmore looked earnestly into her
daughter's face. " Are you sure, my darling,
you love Fitzhaven ? If you are sure you
love him, it is right, and will meet with my
full approval."

" O mamma, you must know I love him ;
I thought you had known it all summer, al-
though I have tried so hard to hide it that I
have often made the poor dear fellow un-
happy. Yes, I am sure I love him better
than any other person on earth except you."
Dear little hypocrite, she knew she loved him
better than her mother i " He will speak to
you, mamma, in the morning, and you must
not scold him because he has told me first ;
he did not intend it, but but .

" never mind, darling," and Lady Dins-
more smiled " I understand it all", and I
will speak to FitzLaven in the morning with-

out scolding him. I shall be very glad to
see you happy, but you must not' expect to
marry yet, you are both too young. Fitz-
haven, according to the laws of Scotland, is
not of age until he is twenty-five."

" No, mamma, I do not wish to marry
yet," she replied, coloring ; " only I shall be
happier lo know it will be gcme day."

"It shall be Borne day, eo be happy, my
dear; but," she added, a little musingly, "I
had thought you loved Guido."

" Loved Guido ? so I did, and so I do now
dearly, but not as I love Filzhaven. I love
Guido as I would a brother, if I had one ; but
did you not know he was back, mamma? he is
walking on the west loggia with Ccnstance."

*' Is he ? " exclaimed Lady Dinsmore, joy-
fully, " I did not expect him before to-mor-
row. He did not disturb me because he
thought I had retired for the night. But
send him to me, dear, I wish to speak with
him."

" Why are you back to-night, Guido ? "
inquired Lady Dinsmore, as the young man
kissed her hand affectionately.

" Because," he replied, " 1 could not stay
away another day, ycu have made me too
happy here. I found my Reman home dull
and gloomy ; so I left directly after my ser-
vice was finished, and hastened over the
road as fast as possible, scarcely expecting
the joyful reception that awaited me ; but is
it too late, and are you too tired to listen to
me?"

" No, my dear boy," replied Lady Dins-
more, " you know my great interest in any
matter that concerns you, and how glad I
am to have your confidence."

Then Guido. holding his friend's hand in
his, told her all the history of his life, the
shame connected with his birth, the trials and
sufferings of his childhood, his ambition and
poverty, his love for Constance and his joy at
finding it returned. " But," he said, " even
now that I know she loves me, 1 hesitate to
ask her to become my wife. I feel it is tco
great a sacrifice to demand of her. I am
poor, and if I marry I must resign my situa-
tion in the service of the Pope, and the in-
come I can command as a teacher will be at
the most very little. What sort of a destiny
is that to ask a woman to share, one born
and reared in luxury ? " He spoke bitterly,
and his eyes were filled with tears.

" My dear boy," said Lady Dinsmore, with
real affection, * you exaggerate the evils of
your position. You must leave Italy and go
to England. There you will have a wider
sphere for your talents. There you can gain
wealth and" a position. Beside, Constance
is not poor. 1 know the noble heart of the
girl so well that I do not hesitate to say she
will never think a marriage with you a sac-
rifice. Your love will make her happy."

She arose from her reclining position, and,

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

101

resting oil her elbow, looked earnestly into
the face of the young man, on which was
imprinted the diverse expression of anxiety
and joy.

"(Juido, my dear boy," she said, "it is
not necessary for me to tell you how deep
my interest is in you, nor how strong is iny
affection for you. You must have felt both.
Your name, your face, your voice, all remind
me of one I loved so well that since I lost
him the greater part of my life has been
buried in his grave. A son was born of that
union. If he had lived he would have borne
your name, and would have been now about
your age. God took the little angel to
heaven with his blessed father. I cannot
tell why. but I feel that he has sent you
in the place of the babe I lost, to comfort
my old age. I am rich, and Florence has
more money than she will ever need. Be to
me a son. Let me think you the child who
nestled but an hour in my bosom. Your life
has been lonely and sad, you have suffered
much. Forget it, and be happy. Your fu-
ture is assured to you. I shall immediately
settle upon you an income sufficient for every
want, and after my death you will share my
property equally with Florence."

" Do not speak of that," he said, with emo-
tion ; " I am young, I can work, and am rich
in the love and esteem of two adorable wo-
men. I will be your son in affection ; in-
deed, I am now. I have often fancied what
a mother should be, and I would choose you
from all the world as the reality of my pre-
cious ideal."

He stooped and kissed her white forehead,
and, smoothing her silvery hair, he said fond-
ly, " Good night, dearest mother 1 may you
have happy dreams ! "

And she did, for all night long in her
sleep, floated with every variation of sound,
like strains of far-off music, " Mother, dear
mother ! "

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE BATTLE OF CASTEL FIDARDO.

IT is necessary here, in order to better
understand this history, to give a slight
sketch of the political state of the country
at that period, September 1, 1860.

Garibaldi, believing the first need of Italy
was union, under the protection of Victor
Emanuel, landed in Sicily, and passed
through the entire south, greeted every-
where with enthusiasm by the people, who
rose in a mass against the army of Francis
II., and even, in many cases, the soldiers of
the Bourbon deserted, and joined themselves
to the great general.

After centuries of discord, division, and
despotism, the Italians had at last awakened

to the knowledge that the first step to liberty
is union. Lombardy had just been wrenched
from the power of the Austrians, and
already burning hearts were longing and
ready to strike a blow for the freedom of
Venice, to rescue from the chains of the,
invader their proud queen of the Adriatic.

One by one, state after state had arisen,
and declared with a unanimous voice in
favor of the federation of all the provinces
under the King of Sardinia, to whom they
would give the title of King of Italy. All
were working in the north with magnificent
ardor for the reconstruction of the nation.

Garibaldi entered Calabria at the head
of fifteen thousand men. There he was re-
ceived with frantic ovations by the popula-
tion. The morning of the 3d of September
it was known in Naples that ten thousand
of the Bourbon soldiers had deserted and
joined his army. General Basco arrived at
the capital, and, after a long conference with
the King, returned to Salerno, where he was
stationed with six thousand troops, without
any precise instructions ; this incertitude
caused confusion and disagreements. The
ministry resigned for the third time, and
every effort to form another was useless.

The day of the 5th it was known that
Garibaldi was at Eboli, and that the Neapol-
itan troops had evacuated Salerno without
a single engagement. The rumor circulated
that the King had called General Desauget,
successor to the Prince of Ischitella in the
command of the National Guards, to announce
to him his decision to abandon the capital.
This news was received at the exchange by
a rising of three points. In the evening it
was known that Gaeta was the a
selected by the King, where he hoped to t a';e
with him forty thousand soldiers. On the
morning of the 6th contradictory rumors
spread. It was said that he had decided to
remain, and endeavor to defend himself by
trying his fortune in a decisive battle on
the plains of Nocera. But very soon this
report was known to be untrue, for at six
o'clock in the evening the King departed
for Gaeta, with all the foreign ambassadors,
and no demonstration was made.

He passed the night on board the royal
yacht in the naval port. In the morning he.
tried to persuade the fleet to accompany
him, but they refused, and the royal yacht
left alone.

Six hours only passed between the de-
parture of the King and the arrival of < laii
baldi. The Dictator entered Naples half
an hour after noon by the railroad, without
any escort, five or six officers alone ac-
companying him. lie descended irom his
carnage at the Piazza Castello Reale, and
took Iod:_ r in2;s in the apartments de-i-ned
for royal guests. Called by the population,
who were frantic to see him, he api-

102

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

on the balcony and said a few words, in
vvhk'lt ho announced to them that the term
of their slavery was finished.

The tricolored flag was unfurled from all
the forts of the city amid the firing of
cannon. The balconies were draped with
tricolored banners and filled with gay faces.
The streets were crowded with the citizens,
shouting " Viva Garibaldi!" and in the
evening , the city was illuminated, and dem-
onstrations of rejoicing were everywhere
visible. The night passed with cries and
songs of joy, but in the morning all was
tranquil ; the laborers returned to their labor,
and the merchant to his merchandise, while
Garibaldi appointed his new ministry.

Pie assumed the title of Dictator of the
two Sicilies, under the King Victor Eman-
uel, annexing the Neapolitan army and
navy to the Piedmontese. Libario Romano,
Minister of the Interior, signed the decree
of the Dictator.

Toward the evening of the 9th he went,
in company with two or three friends, to
the Castel St. Elmo, -where some few of the
officers, more faithful to the cause of Francis
II., had arrested several soldiers suspected
of a desire to give the castello to the nation.
At the sight of Garibaldi the soldiers im-
mediately abandoned the fort, refusing to
protect it any longer; he then called the
National Guards, who occupied it at once.

That same day he issued the following
proclamation :

TO THE NEAPOLITAN ARMY!

If you do not disdain Garibaldi for a
companion-in-arms, he desires nothing bet-
ter than to fight at your side against the
enemy of your country. A truce then te
discords, the everlasting evils of our nation.
Let Italy, treading on the fragments of her
chains, point out to us in the north the path
of honor toward the last refuge of her tyrants.

I can promise you nothing but fighting.
GARIBALDI.

NAPLES, September 9, 1860.

All these events had transpired with such
rapidity and so silently that the residents
at Sans Souci knew nothing of the occupation
of Naples by Garibaldi until they were in-
formed by one of the servants?, who had been
told by the sailors of the market-boat that
stopped at the little marina twice a week.

Meanwhile, another scene of the great
drama was about developing itself in the
Pontifical states. From various cities depu-
tations came to Victor Emanuel, soliciting
protection against the foreign soldiers of
the Pope, for an interior agitation was man-
ifested just in those cities where General
Lamoriciere had placed his troops, in order
to prevent a revolution.

Already a greater part of Umbria and
the Marches was in possession of the Pied-

inontese army. Foligno, Spoletto, Orvieto,
and Perugia had just been taken with little
resistance. The same disposition was shown
in the Pontifical states as in the other parts
of Italy.

Ancona, then the last seaport of any im-
portance belonging to the Papal government,
was the only stronghold on the Adriatic in
which the Pontifical troops, who were al-
most surrounded by the Italians, could take
refuge.

The Musone, a small river which enters
the sea a mile and a- half below Loreto,
flows through a valley about five hundred
yards wide, dotted with a few trees and in-
tersected with ditches for irrigation. A mile
from Loreto, this stream receives from the
left the Aspio, a river of more importance.
These two currents and a chain of hills, on
which is situated Castel Fidardo, form an
angular plain, on which was fought the
short, bloody, and decisive battle that wrest-
ed Ancona and the neighboring cities from
the power of the Pope.

Going from Ancona, one follows the Mu-
sone, crossed by a light wooden bridge, a
mile from the city. Nearly opposite, en the
Aspio, is another, better constructed, of
stone. A mile farther, the Valetto crosses
the Musone, a very deep and rapid river, it
presents a formidable obstacle for the pas-
sage of infantry, and utterly impracticable
for cavalry and guns. At this point a Pied-
montese regiment of infantry', after having
cut away the bridge, stationed two pieces of
cannon, which on the evening of the 15th
had driven back the scout of General Lamo-
riciere, who, finding himself cut off from
crossing the river, awaited the attack at
Loreto with four or five thousand men, while
Cialdini, General of the Italian army, had
posted two divisions of six thousand men
each, one at Ancona, the other at Castel
Fidardo.

On the morning of the 18th, Lamoriciere,
believing he could force his way to Ancona,
where he hoped to receive some reinforce-
ments and provisions by sea, attacked the
extreme position of the troops of Cialdiui
stationed at Castel Fidardo, who, after a
short but bloody engagement, drove the
Pontifical army into the plains below.
There, reinforced by the first line of General
Pimodan, who arrived shortly after the
struggle commenced, they did not do spa; r
of driving the Italians back, or, at the worst,
of being able to retreat to Ancona after they
found it impossible to fall back on Loreto.

At this crisis the artillery, which had not
been able to leave the road on account of
the high embankments, were taken with a
panic of fear, some of the leaders cutting
the harnesses of the horses and abandoning
their guns. This confusion threw Lamori-
ciere into the greatest perplexity. However,

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

103

he endeavored to reunite his troops, while
General Pimodan covered them from the fire
of the enemy. For some tune they fought
bravely, remaining under a merciless fire of
the Piedmontcse, until General Pimodan,
struck by two balls, tell, mortally wounded,
by the side of Lamoriciere, who, shaking
hands with him for the last time, and ex-
changing a few sad words, saw him carried
to the rear. Now the fate of the day rested
on a battalion of bersaylieri, a few companies
of Zouaves and Swiss, who resolutely forced
their way to the Musone, where they found
themselves face to face with the guns of the
Piedmontese. Then the greater part threw
away their arms and baggage, and fled in
the wildest confusion, taking refuge among
the tall canes that grew ou the bank of the
river, and some even plunging into the rapid
stream, that soon carried them, stiff and
stark, out to the sea. The few that remained,
seeing the day was lost, fought with a des-
perate fury, retreating toward the sea,, where
they were met by the troops of Cialdini, sta-
tioned at Ancona.

The foreign soldiers of the Pope, finding
themselves surrounded and cut off from re-
treat on every side, before surrendering,
fought with a frenzy of madness, face to face
with the Italians. And it is even said that
the wounded and dying hirelings struck their
daggers into the hearts of the soldiers who
came to their assistance. Lamoriciere es-
caped from the enemy by taking refuge in
the convent of Loreto, where he was con-
cealed until an opportunity offered for him
to fly to Rome.

The result of this battle was the fall of
Ancona ; six hundred Pontifical prisoners,
among whom were thirty officers, many pieces
of artillery, all the guns and baggage of those
who fled, and the wounded, dead, and dying,
were left in the hands of the Italians.

So ended the last struggle of Umbria and
the Marches. Curtailed and diminished
almost to the very walls of Rome, the Papal
government, protected by its hirelings, still
smiled in scornful security from this strong-
hold of the world. But patience, faith in
God and in the future ; eventually her
chains will fall off, and a new Rome will
arise from the ashes of the old, more noble,
more glorious than ever in her palmiest
days, and future generations shall yet point
to her as the polar star of the world.

clashing bayonets, in the very thickest of
the carnage, a tall slight man in gray was
seen carrying water and wine to the ex-
hausted, dying soldiers; treating alike Pon-
tifical and Italian, bearing with almost su-
perhuman strength the wounded beyond
the line of fire and the tramp of horses;
taking no part whatever in the action,
j neither encouraging by word or deed the
soldiers on either side ; looking alike with
indifference on the conquered retreating or

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

AT LAST. FACE TO FACE.

ALL day during the noise and roar of the
battle, in the fury of the engagement,
amid the rain of shot and shell, under the

the triumphant advancing; never heeding
the cries of despair or the shouts of victory ;
only sometimes, when he came fai-e to face
with a man on whose compressed lips was
stamped the hellish strength of his hate a.-*
he was about to plunge his dagger into the
heart of a fair-haired German, with a lear-
i ful blow he would turn the weapon aside,
and disarm the murderer with a look.

The sailors and fishermen of Ancona who
had volunteered, rushing into the fray like
bronzed fiends, knew him, and their shouts
of praise, prayers, and benedictions followed
him everywhere. They called him St.
Michael, the patron saint of the city ; they
cried, " He is watched over by our Holy
Lady of Loreto ; no harm can befall him,
for all the blessed angels guard him."
There was something in his calm, pale face
and tender blue eyes that won love and
reverence from all. Fearless of his own
life, he rushed into the midst of the carnage,
that he might rescue from the feet of the
crowd and the tramp of the cavalry some
poor wretch borne down by the stress of
the battle.

" Who is that man in gray ? " inquired a
French general. " He seems to bear a
charmed life ; I should think him the patron
saint of Ancona, protected by our Lady of
Loreto ; he performs wonderful feats" of
strength and courage. I just taw him dracc
a dragoon from under the horse that had
fallen on him. By Jove ! an action worthy
Hercules ! "

"They say he is an Englishman, mon
', and he treats all alike," replied the
; Zouave to whom the question was ad-
dressed ; "just now I saw him tearing off
the sleeves of his shirt to bind up fil-
tered arm of a poor Swiss who was bleeding
to death."

" A splendid fellow ! " muttered the officer
under his grizzled mustache. " There is
something familiar in his figure and air; [
believe I have seen him before." A sti
expression passed over his face, ami, i-lnkin^
his spurs into his horse, as though panned
by a fiend, he plunged into the thickest of
the battle.

The day wore on, and the panic innvuM-d ;
retreating toward the sea, the few who re-
mained to fight were fallin* one by one
under the merciless fire of the Piedmonteso

104

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

artillery. Many who plunged into the
Musone were followed by the pitiless shot ;
staining the water with their blood, they
floated'out to the broad sea, fea.r, despair,
and passion alike ended forever.

" No rnercy ! no mercy ! " cried the Italian
soldiers. " Our Lady of Loreto behind, and
St. Michael before ! the victory is ours be-
cause the Madonna watches over us from
yonder shrine on the hill. We will not
spare these invaders ; death to the Francesi !
death to the Tedeschi .' " Many poor wretches
sold their lives dearly, fighting with gleam-
ing daggers and bloody hands, going into
eternity with curses on their lips. And
everywhere went the tall man in gray.
Having thrown aside his hat in the begin-
ning of the 'Struggle, his hair was matted
with sweat and dust, his face and hands
grimy with smoke, his clothes torn and
stained with blood, and yet he never flinched,
never grew weary, heeded not the burning
sun, or the hail of shot and ball. Many a
poor Zouave blessed him with his last
breath, as he died with the kind, pitying
face bending over him. And a fair-haired
German murmured, as the soul passed from
the lacerated, bleeding body, " You are like
the Christ my mother told me of when 1
was a child."

A battalion of Piedmontese had just
launched a deadly hail of burning shot into
a remnant of a Zouave regiment, who were
struggling with desperate energy and fury
against an Italian brigade. A howl of rage
and despair burst from them, as their
general, a fine stately man, struck by two
balls, staggered and fell under the feet of
his retreating soldiers.

In a moment a strong arm drew him be-
yond the line, and the man in gray stood
looking horror-stricken on his ghastly face.
All expression of tenderness and pity had
vanished, and from his eyes gleamed a hate
terrible to behold.

" At last, at last," he muttered between
his clenched teeth, " at last face to face ;
but he is dying, he is unconscious, and I
cannot wrench the secret from him. I have
found him, but it is too late. O my God,
let him live but to reveal to me what I so
long to know, and I " He paused; the
words seemed to choke him, for he gasped
as one in mortal agony. Then, suddenly
falling on his knees, he bowed his head be-
side the dying man, and prayed vehemently, j
Still the hate and desire for revenge had |
not passed from his heart, and he looked j
coldly on the red stream that welled from
the breast, staining the sod around him.

" I wished for his heart's blood once," he
said. " Now it flows before me, but my
hand has not shed it. He will escape me ;
in a few moments more he will be beyond
the reach of my revenge. my God, my

God ! " he cried, with almost frenzy, " and
has it all been useless, all these struggles
with self, all these prayers, all these efforts
to make some atonement ? Yes, it has
been in vain, for I have not conquered this
deadly hate ; I thought it was laid to rest
forever, and I could meet him calmly. But
no, no, it is not. The demon stirs within
me, and rises with double strength. He is
dying before me, and I would not stretch out
my hand to save him. O, if I could have
heard him speak ! If he had told me she was
innocent, I would have forgiven him, and
he should have died with his head upon my
breast." His face fell into his hand, and he
remained again for a few moments silently
imploring God for strength to gain this last
victory, this victory over his own soul, when
on his ear fell a voice, a faint and feeble
voice ; yet familiar, a voice that spoke to his
heart with the tones of other days, " Water,
water." He raised his head, and the dying
man's eyes were fixed upon him with a sort
of horror and fear. Struggling to his elbow,
and pushing back the hair from his ghastly
forehead, he gasped, " Yes, it is he. I am
dying, Vandeleur, it is too late for ven-
geance."

" Hush. De Villiers," he said, with a voice
of extreme gentleness, and a light on his
face like one who had been in the presence
of the Deity. " God knows that now I do
not desire vengeance ; a few moments ago
I did, but now the hate in my heart is dead
forever."

He raised the head of the dying man to
his breast, and, putting a flask of wine and
water to his lips, he said in a voice of ago-
nized anxiety, " Tell me but one thing, De
Villiers, tell me but one thing, and all is
forgotten from this moment between us.
Tell me, was she innocent ? "

De Villiers raised his eyes to the face
bending above him, eyes already filled
with the mysterious light of eternity, and
said, in a weak but impressive voice, " Yes,
she was innocent. The letter I wrote you
was as false as the fiendish heart that
dictated it."

" My God, I thank thee ! " And Richard
Vandeleur raised his eyes upward with a
look so eloquent of gratitude that the angel
who registered it must have blotted out for-
ever from the book of life the record of many
of his sins.

" Let me do something to stop this blood,"
he cried, tearing open the coat of the dying
man.

" It is useless, the wound is mortal ; I have
but a moment to live."

" Then tell me, I implore you, where is
she ? Is she living ? "

" I know not, 1 cannot tell you ; I have
not seen her since she fled from me in the
niaht and darkness."

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

105

" O, explain ! " pleaded Vandeleur, in a
voice of trembling eagerness.

" Raise me a little, so that the blood will
not choke me, and I will try to tell you all.
From the first I had conceived a violent
passion for the girl ; as soon as you left, I
began my base attempts to win her froin
you. 1 soon saw it was useless ; she was
too pure and innocent to understand my
hints and insinuations, and loved you too
entirely to think for a moment of another.
I then determined to separate you, thinking,
IL >he believed you unworthy, she would tuni
to me ; wrote that base letter to you, after
which I told her of the false marriage. She j
would not believe it ; I protested it Avas true,
but she was still incredulous until I showed
her a letter you had written to me, in which
you referred to it, as you often did in your
fits of remorse, regretting the crime you had
committed. When she saw it in your own
writing, she believed it. At first she seemed
horror-stricken, then almost mad with rage
and indignation at the deceit and wrong you
had practised upon her. She implored me
to take her away to some retreat where she
never could see you again. I wished to
leave the place, fearing you might suspect
some villany and return at once before I !
had succeeded in my object. I agreed read-
ily to her proposal and left the cottage, tell-
ing the servant we were going to you.

" That night we stopped at a poor inn, at
a little hamlet near Ancona. Alone, with
this unprotected, suffering creature entirely
in my power, a demon took possession of me,
and I made advances to her which she re-
pulsed with the indignant pride and scorn
of an outraged angel. In the darkness she
fled from me ; I pursued, but failed to find |
her. In tbe morning I continued my search,
but could di.-cover no trace of her. Think- i
ing she had fled to you, and your vengeance i
would be terrible if you overtook me, I left
the country. I have never seen her face
since that night she looked reproach and
scorn into mine."

The hot tears fell one by one on the
upturned face of the dying man, and the
strong finders clasped tighter the damp
cold hand that rested in his.

"I forgive you, God knows I forgive you !
How she must have suffered, poor hunted,
tortured creature ! O, if I could but look
into her face for one moment, and know she
was sate, I should be willing to die in your
stead, De Villiers ! "

" If she is not on earth she is safe in para-
dise ; such angels as she are not lost. But if
she still lives and you ever see her, implore
o forgive me; tell her i asked it
dying."

" A film gathered over his eye?, large

and se.archin'.!:, with the intense expression

of those who stand on the boundary line of

a new country, striving to look farther than
is allowed to mortal \ ision ; and he said in
a voice sinking far down below the level of
life, " How I have sinned ! but of all my
crimes that was the greatest. I h;ue been
punished, fearfully punit-hed. I have lost
all, friends, wealth, and love ; and I am
living, with a wasted life behind, and a dark
and terrible uncertainty before me. I have
fought like a demon to-day, ;:nd the blood
I have shed has cried for. vengeance against
me, and it has followed me close and sure.
Ah, if I had fought for a cause I loved ! but
I have not. I have been but a hireling in
the hands of others. Still, Vande'cur, you
have forgiven me; you whom I have so
wronged. In those old days I loved you;
yes, believe me, I loved you as well as I
could love anything. But the evil in me
was stronger than the good, and I could not
resist the promptings oi' the fiend. Ah, what
a weak fool I have been ! 1 have poured oil
on the fire of my own passions. You re-
member how I scoffed at virtue. She
taught me its strength ; and now that I can
die in your arms, as>ural of your forgiveness,
convinces me that there is some divinity
moulded into our base clay. Look into my
face with your gentle eyes, mon ami, and let
me see for a moment the old smile there.
Do you remember those nights on the
Adriatic when she sang to us, ' J\'on ti
scordar, non ti scordar di me ' ? Angels and
Mother of God, have mercy on me I I see
Christ far above me, extended on the cross,
and though there is agony on his I now there
is pity in his eyes, j;ity like yours, Van-
deleur. If I might but reach up through the
darkness and touch his feet, I should be
saved."

He raised his arms for a mom-cnt. With
a long, straining gaze he loolud in to the blue
heavens ; but he saw nothing MI\ e a ] ityin<j
face bending from the darkness above and
around, into which his pcor scul ventured
timidly. Who can follow it beyond the line
of vision? The horizon dips down into the
sea, but we know not if beyond there may
not be an island of peace for such tempest-
tossed pilgrims.

He died, the memory of his sins before
him, the roar and din of battle around him,
and his head on the bruut of the man who
had once been his deadly enemy. \Vhc n sin
and sorrow, penitence and renu i>e, life and
death, meet in Mich s-harp i \trcmes, we
know not what lorious results are born of
such agonized travail.

Richard Vandclcur knelt gn/ing into the
ghastly face, that b.*re the mavks of a terrible
conflict, long after the breath ha 1 left the
cold lips. An ineffable peace had fallen
upon him ; he scarcely heard the roar :Mid
fury of the battle that" Mill rauvd at a little
distance. One thought filled all his -.ml

106

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

with joy, she was innocent, and if she
lived she loved him .'till ; yes, in spite of the
wrong he had done her, he i'elt she had for-
given him and loved him still.

Suddenly through the hot air came a seeth-
ing, hissing emissary of death. Something
pierced his lungs with a sharp pain. He
threw up his hands, and fell forward sense-
less on the cold breast of De Villiers.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

UNDER THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

THE struggle of life ! O the sharp-
ness of the conflict in which we engage
against the world, our fellow-creatures, and
ourselves ! From the cradle to the grave we
find living a contest, and the earth a vast
battle-fiald covered with the slain. We
spring into being with a wail, and, face to
face with Nature, we find in her an unpity-
ing adversary. Her suns scorch us, her
frosts t freeze us, her winds tear us from every
shelter, her seas ingulf us, her rocks are
hurled upon us, her thunderbolts cleave the
heavens and descend in fury to wrench from
us the feeble existence she has bestowed.
Men prey upon men with the ferocity of wild
beasts; envy, jealousy, pride, and ambition
are the motives that impel men to pursue
and hunt each other with unwearying hos-
tility ; the more feeble, the more appealing
for protection and support, the quicker we
are borne down, trampled on, and passed
over hy the hurrying feet of our enemies.

Poor butterflies ! we go forth and sport a
little while in the sunlight of the morning ;
the flower's woo us, the breeze bears us on
buoyant pinions, the songs of birds fill the
air around us, and we rejoice in the life of
life. But the storm comes, and who heeds
us when our wings are soiled and torn, and
we are beaten into the mire ? The flowers
that wooed us turn away their languid heads,
the birds sing for other gay flutterers, and
the breeze that bore us up to heaven on glad
wings serves but to impel us downward;
the myriads of toilers and strugglers who
have fallen in the strife make the world one
vast tomb. One generation passes away,
and another arises on its ashes ; and who
shall know or care in the succeeding ages
what hearts have suffered, beat, and'bled,
or how many weary heads have ached with
painful thought, how many hungry souls
have striven to lift the curtain that hid from
them the great unknown ? Not one discov-
ery in art or science has been made but
some one has fallen a victim to the truth he
upheld, and has bought with his own blood
the achievement of his life-long efforts. Of
all the enemies that besiege us, the most

difficult to vanquish is self; we stand ap-
palled, face to face with an adversary
against whom many have striven, but striven
in vain. They have iuund the rebel heart
and the stubborn brain too strong icr human
strength to crush; some have conquered.
but more have died before the conquest.
We all have struggled and suffered, and
whether we overcome or are overcome, still
on the battle-field of life we must not lie
down on our shields to rest until the final
victory is won, until the last trump of the
archangel is sounded.

The moon looked down with pitying face
upon the deserted hattle-field of Castel Fi-
dardo, deserted save by the dead and
dying, and the angels of mercy who went
here and there binding up the wounds and
holding the cup of cold waier alike to the
lips of friend and fee.

Everywhere went two Benedictine monks,
and with them a Sister of Charity, her face
pale and sweet as a sorrowing angel carved
over the tomb of a saint. Eyes large and
soft, from which the fires of passion seemed
burnt out forever, looked from the project-
ing hood of serge with infinite tenderness
and pity ; and lips that once must have
whispered words of love drooped in mourn-
ful curves, as she murmured an Agnus Dei
over a dying soldier.

Tenderly she washes away the clotted
blood from the feverish wounds ; with skilful
fingers she binds up the shattered limbs ;
the cold water she places to the parched
lips seems nectar, and the ccol soft hand
pressed upon the dust-stained brow is like
the tender touch of a cherub's wing. Every-
where she bears with her a sense of calm
and refreshing, and many dim eyes are
turned in blessings upon her as she passes.

Near the trenches on the ground sits a
young girl with dishevelled hair and ghastly
brow. Against her bosom rests the bronzed
face of a young man. He has been some
hours dead, but she does not know it ; the
thinks him sleeping from exhaustion and
weakness, and she sways back and forth,
and murmurs to him as a mother would to
a weary child. It is poor Antonio, the fish-
erman of Sinigaglia, to whom Richard Van-
deleur had given thirty scudi that he might
be united to his Francesca. But a mightier
than poverty has come between them now ; it
is death, and the bride of a few weeks does
not know it, for the fear and agony of the day
have benumbed and clouded her reason.
And she sits there murmuring the same*
words of love, always ending with the ques-
tion, " Antonio mio, why dost thou sleep so
heavily ? "

Sister Agnese draws near, and stands for
a moment gazing on the group with eyes of
intense pity. Then, softly laying her hand
on the girl's head, she says, "Francesca

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

107

mia, why do you sit there on the damp
ground ? Your Antonio is very weary ; he
has need of rest ; let these men take him to his
home. And you, pnvera jif/lia, go yonder to
the shrine of the Madonna, and pray that
he may awake. Padre Hypolito," beckoning
to the monk, " cannot you persuade her to
leave him for a moment? He is dead and
she does not know it, her reason is quite
gone."

" Figlia mia" said the monk, putting his
arm around her, and gently endeavoring to
remove the dead, " come with me to the
shrine of our Lady, we will pray for your
Antonio."

' My Antonio ! " she cried wildly, press-
ing him to her heart, and kissing again and
again his cold lips, " why do you not
awake ? "

" He will awake no more," said the nun,
"unless you say many paternosters to our
Lady of Loreto."

" 1 will go then, I will go quickly, that he
may open his eyes and smile on me, that I
may hear his voice calling me, ' Carissima
mia.' " Gently she laid him down, folding
her apron for a pillow, and crossing his al-
ready rigid hands on his breast. " Caro
bello," she murmured, as the monk led her
away toward Loreto, " I will return to you
directly." Then Sister Agnese made a sign
to the men to raise him and carry him
away.

The moon rose higher in the heavens and
floated in serene splendor above the scene
of suffering and death, revealing the ghastly
upturned faces, with wide-open eyes. They
seemed by their fixed intensity even yet to
implore pity from heaven. The river mur-
mured and rippled and sparkled between
its reed-covered banks, where the spirit of
night whispered mysteriously to the double-
dyed crimson "papavero, that gently dropped
its soporiferous petals on the pallid brows
of the silent sleepers, who needed neither
mandragora nor poppy to lull them to re-
pose, for after the frenzy and fury of the
day they slept well.

Mingled with the sad murmur of the
Adriatic came at regular intervals the
booming of the cannons, as the enemy bom-
barded the hilly fortress of Ancona, and
across the transparent blue air flashed and
flickered the baleful light of the returning
fire. From the city above came the roar
and din of the battle; for although Night
had dropped her sable curtain and lulled
" nature to repose, yet the unquiet heart of
man, filled with hellish hate, still struggled
'for victory with unabated fury.

Sister Agnese passed here and there over
the field, wherever a dark outline or a con-
fused heap told her some poor remnant of
humanity needed aid. pity, or prayer. Sud-
denjy she stopped, and, clasping her hand to

her heart with a suffocating cry, she fell on
her knees before a ghastly heap, the bleed-
ing forms of two men, one in the uniform of
a French colonel, the other in a citizen's
dress of ;jray.

She did not see the face of the man in
gray, for it was hidden on the breast of the
other, but on one finger of the outstretched
hands clasped above his head glittered a
ring of singular device and brilliancy. With
a frenzy of strength she raised the body,
and, turning the face toward the light, ex-
amined the features closely.

What was there in the worn bearded face,
the ghastly brow, the tangled blood-stained
hair, to remind her of the fresh boyish cheek,
the clear blue eyes, the brown curls of the
head that had so often rested on her bosom ?
Scarcely a trace. Yet it was the same ;
she knew it with the power by which one
soul recognizes another in eternity, though
separated from the form and face it bore on
earth.

" My God ! " she said, " both here, one
lying dead on the breast of the other. Is it
thus, after all these years, I meet the men
who have worked out for me such a terrible
destiny, who have branded my life with
such a sin ? Riccardo mio ! " she moaned,
as she laid his head on her knee, and clasped
her hands as one in prayer, "I had hoped
that at the last thou would st have had time
for repentance and absolution, so in paradise
I could have met thee, and lived with thee
forever. But thou hast died here without
confession or sacrament, and now indeed
thou art lost to me for eternity. How
changed, how changed ! " she continued,
gazing at him with the pathos of pity in her
eyes and voice ; and as she gazed a new ex-
pression passed over her face, and a new
light beamed from the depths of her mourn-
ful eyes. Clasping his head to her breast,
and pressing her cheek against his, she
cried :

" Pieta, Signore ! I thought this love was
dead forever; but no. it has only slumbered,
and n\)w it stirs, awakes, and springs to life
with its olden fervor. O, if he were but
living before me I would forget all, even the
crime that separated us, and follow him for-
ever, until he smiled upon me I My woman's
heart cries to me. My love, my life, I re-
member those old days of bliss. Of what
use have been my prayers and fasting, the
gloomy walls of my cell, the cold Mor.e where
I have slept, the scourge, the penance, and
tlu mortification ? It is all forgotten. I re-
member only the hours I lay on your Im-.T-t,
the moonlit seas where we Boated, 'the
still, green places where we met.' I would
give up my hopes of eternal happiness in the
presence of the Madonna for one hour of
the olden bliss. O sinner that I am ! O
blasphemer ! what do I say ? Mother of

108

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

Christ, forgive me ; thou who wast a woman,
intercede for me ! "

Praying and weeping, while the scalding
tears fell on the dear face pressed to her
heart, she fancied a faint sigh fluttered to
her ear like the wing of a dying bird. With
frantic haste she tore open his clothes, and,
pressing her hand to his heart, she ex-
claimed, " He lives, he lives ! "

The transformation from despair to joy
was sudden, and her voice rang out clear
and shrill on the air as she cried, " Padre
Benedetto, send hither some men with a
litter." In a moment a monk and two
fishermen were at her side.

" Lift him gently," she said, with a smile
of almost joy ; " he still lives, and we may
save him."

" Ah ! it is our Signore Inglese," they said,
as they raised him tenderly. " He has
risked his life for us many times to-day ; we
will save him if we can."

" And this Francese ? " inquired one,
spurning the body of De Villiers with his
foot. " Let the ravens eat him."

" Hush ! " cried Sister Agnese, sternly.
" Are ye men or brutes that ye speak so ?
He has injured me more than any of you,
and I forgive him. Let his body be decently
cared for."

Pressing one of the cold hands of Richard
Vandeleur to her lips, she walked by his
side while they carried him to the nearest
cottage. She visited no more the battle-
field that night, but after the surgeon had
dressed his wound and rendered him as
comfortable as possible, she knelt by his
bed and prayed with passionate fervor that
he might be restored to consciousness long
enough to know her, if only for one mo-
ment.

As the rosy dawn stole through the little
window of the hovel where he lay, it found
the pale nun still kneeling by his bed. She
had thrown aside her hood and mantle of
serge, and torn off the white bandage that
confined and concealed her hair. She wished,
if he awoke, he might see her as in .those
olden days. With her crucifix clasped in
her hands like the penitent Magdalene, she
prayed that she might be forgiven because
she had loved much.

Slowly, slowly the red tide of life drifted
back to the white lip and cheek of the suf-
fering man. He opened his eyes with a
confused memory that Mona had been the
last in his thoughts, and now his lips first
murmured her name. With a cry of rap-
ture she clasped his hands, saying, " I
am here, Riccardo mio, I am here; your
Mona is by your side. Do you not know
me?"

He looked long and searchingly into her
face, then a smile of recognition trembled
on his lips, and, raising his weak arms, he

drew her to him and pressed her closely to
his heart without a word.

The golden sunlight flooded the dingy
room ; the birds shook the dew from their
wings and floated up to heaven with jubilant
songs. But these two poor souls, united at
last after so many years of weary waiting,
heeded not the awakening of nature, neither
the shadow of a dark wing that rested upon
them. Oblivious of all but that heart beat
to heart, and lip was pressed to lip, they
lay weeping in each other's embrace.

CHAPTER XL.

RICHARD VANDELEUR'S REPARATION.

^FOWARD the last of September, one
JL delicious morning, Constance, leaning
on the arm of Guido, and talking in a light,
lively strain, wandered through the winding
paths of the orange-gardens at Sans Souci.
They were 'as happy as two children, living
in each other's society, surrounded by con-
genial friends, in the midst of a paradise of
beauty, enjoying to the full the dolce far
niente.

Guido had sent in his resignation to the
chapel, which had been reluctantly accepted,
and now he was free to marry. It was
Lady Dinsmore's wish, that, after spending
the next winter in Rome, they should all
return to England together, and the wed-
ding should take place at Dinsmore Castle.
Constance was too happy in the present to
desire any change ; yet she sometimes a?ked
herself, " Is this to end as my other hopes
have ? Am I too secure ? Is there even
now a dark cloud gathering in my horizon,
that may break over me at any moment ?
No, it cannot be ; I have suffcred so much.
I feel now it is ended, and my future will
be happier than my past. He loves me ;
then what have I to fear ? "

She rarely indulged in siich thoughts, for
Guido was so joyous, so contented ; and his
sweetness of disposition seemed infectious,
it was impossible to be sad with him. This
morning there was no cloud in their heaven.
They were talking, in the security of a joyful
present, of an undoubted, blissful future.

" I shall not be idle always, dear," Guido
said. " I shall strive to become a composer
that the world will not refuse to recognize.
And you shall be proud of me, my dar-
ling."

" I am very proud of you now," she re-
plied, with a shy, sweet smile ; " and noth-
ing you can do will make me love you any
better."

" Bella mia ! " he said, with a look of
deep love and gratitude, " what have I done
to merit such an an^el ? "

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

And, so talking, they turned a winding
path and came upon Helen Tremaine sitting
alone upon a garden seat, her face buried in
her hands, absorbed in deep thought.

" Ah, Mrs. Tremaine ! " cried Guido, " we
have caught you planning some new mis-
chief. The brightest, sweetest rose I can
find for a full confession."

" AVell, I will confess then," she said,
starting up, and revealing for an instant a
most sad and pained expression, which
passed away as she spoke. " I am horridly
bored in this stupid place and with this
monotonous life. I am sick of your sweet
society, I am surfeited with moonlighr, love,
and flowers. I long to get back to some
city. I am pining for a drive in the Bois
or on the Pincio. O my life in Egypt 1 O
the flattery and the strife ! " and, like
Cleopatra, she would have added, " O my
Roman Antony ! " "I was born for excite-
ment, I was not created to vegetate in rus-
tic simplicity. I am tired of white dresses
and straw hats ; in fact, I would like to make
a gorgeous toilet, and go to an ambassador's
ball."

Poor unquiet heart ! A red spot burned
on her cheek, and she flung herself back in
her old position with impatient weariness.

" I fear Mrs. Tremaine is not happy," said
Constance, as they continued their walk.

A servant approached them. " A letter
for the Signorina." She took it, and, before
breaking the seal, said quietly, "It is from
Mr. Vandeleur."

She had told Guido of that episode in her
life which had cost her such pain ; never-
theless his cheek flushed slightly, and a
bitter pang of jealousy shot through his
heart, when he saw the terrible pallor of
her face as she read.

" O Guido, what shall I do ? " she said,
giving him the letter when she had finished.
It was very short, only a few lines.

" Constance, I have found her, but I am
dying. I have only a few days to live.
Will you come to me ? I wish to see you
once more, and you may be able to comfort
her when I am gone."

" What shall I do? " she said again, look-
ing anxiously in his face.

" We will go to him directly, my darling,"
he replied. " Poor Mona, I loved her as a
sister ; I remember our childhood ; now she
needs me, and my place is by her side.
Let us seek Lady Dinsmore, she will ac-
company us." That same day they left
Naples for Ancona.

In one of the largest rooms of the Hotel
della Pace, overlooking the Adriatic, lay
Richard Vandeleur, supported by pillows,
emaciated and pale ; his eyes looking out
from their deep hollows with a startling
intensity ; his whole appearance that of
one on the very confines of eternity, yet

over all the pale worn face was an expres-
sion of infinite calm and content. His
wound, which was through his ri'_rlit lun'_ r .
refused to heal, and frequent hemon-ha-.:*' had
so reduced him that nothing could po~il>Iy
raise him from the weakness and exhaustion
consequent. By his side sat Mona, no
longer in the dress of a Sister of Charity.
That morning she had told all her sad
history to a kind-hearted priest, and at the
earnest request of Richard Vandeleur he
had performed the sacrament that made
I them indeed man and wife.

He was listening to her now ; his hand
I clasped in hers, and her sad eyes fixed on
him with adoring love.

" We will say nothing of the poor sinner
who so deceived you," she said, with a little
I shudder. " He has gone to be judged by
One who is most merciful. It is true, my
darling, he parted us, but that should have
been, it was necessary. And though the
means were wrong, perhaps the result has
not been all bad. It was just that we
should perform some penance to atone for
our sin."

" Our sin," he repeated, sadly. "My sin,
not yours, my poor child. You were inno-
cent."

"No, no, I was not entirely innocent,
for I loved you then better than the dear
Madonna, and for a long time after; and
even now," she said in a low voice and with
a sudden flush, " I love you before the dear
sisterhood who have done so much for me,
and among whom I have found a shelter for
all these years. Riccardu mio, I will forget
them. I will go with you and be your
slave. It may be a sin, but I shall be hap-
py to sit at your feet and look into your
face."

His eyes filled with tears as he said
solemnly, " Monn, my beloved, you nm*t
not think of any future with me. You will be
spared that sin, if it be a sin. In a few days
I shall be where your thoughts can follow
me without disloyalty to your religion. Can
you not see I am dying? My dnrliivjr, I
cannot remain long with you, but in a little
while you will come to me."

" Do not speak of dying," she cried, with
sharp anguish in her tones. " You wiil not
die. I will pray to the Madonna day and
night. I will cling to her feet and implore
her to spare you. I will do any penanre.
I will make a pilgrimage over the rough
stones with bleeding feet; I will scourgi:
myself; I will fast, like St. Jerome; I will
waste my poor body to a skeleton until
the Mother of God hears and grants my
prayer."

There was a fierce light in her eyes and a
strange compression of her lips, as she
clasped his bands to her heart with almost
frenzy.

110

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

" I thought that night," she continued,
" when I fled from that wicked man in the
darkness, that our Lady had no pity on
poor suffering women like ine ; but the next
morning, when I found a shelter in the con-
vent on tlie hill, and the good nuns were so
kind and tender to me, my feelings changed,
and I was all gratitude to our blessed
Mother. I think, darling, we are all so
much better when God is good to us ; and
then when my dear little baby was born the
sisters stood over me, never scorning or
despising me, although they had just cause
to think me a sinner, for I would tell them
nothing. I felt then such a love for our
Lord, that, like the Magdalene, I could have
washed his feet with my tears. But when
the child died, a few days after, the evil spirit
took possession of me, and for a long while
1 hated everything. The sunlight, the blue
sea, the soft breeze, the fragrant flowers, all,
all were hateful to me, and even the good
padre who ordered fasting and the cold stone
for my pillow. Think of it, after pillowing
my head so long on thy breast ! O, it was
very hard then ! I thought the pictured
Madonna in my cell mocked rue with her
smile of pity. And then I turned it to the
wall until the padre insisted upon my look-
ing at it and praying before it. Like an
angry tiger I used to rush back and forth
in my narrow dark cell, striking my head
against the stones, and scourging my self un-
til the blood flowed over the knotted cord, de-
lighting in the pain because the agony of my
body relieved somewhat my mental misery.
It was years before I was subdued, and
then what an infinity of pain and penance
and strife it cost me ! But at last gentler
feelings came. It was at the time of the
cholera, when many were dying, and I tried
to do something for my fellow-creatures,
that the cure came, or perhaps I should say
the partial cure, for I think I was not
wholly cured until the night I held you in
my arms under the light of the moon, and
felt your breath on my cheek. Then all the
angels of God sang in the air around me,
and I loved our blessed Saviour with suffi-
cient fervor to admit me into his presence.
But now, now if he takes you away, the dark
spell will come again. I feel it, I know it.
Nothing can avert it. I shall die of mad-

A lurid fire burned in her eyes, and a
fierce expression passed over her face.

Mr. Vandeleur drew her gently toward
him, and, pressing her cheek to his, while
the hot tears fell from his eyes, said, with
inexpressible tenderness, " Sposa mia, will
not the thought of my love for you calm and
soften your grief when I am gone ? I un-
derstand your suffering ; I too have passed
through it all ; but now the anguish of it is
lifted from me forever. I have not been a

1 good man ; the greater part of my life has

| been spent in sin and sell-gratification, and

I once 1 was mad with the desire for the life

: of the man who separated us ; but for him

j you might have been my wife years age, and

| my child would have died in its iather's

i arms. It was a great wrong, and when he

lay dying before me, for one moment I

hated him, and would not stretch out my

hand to save him ; but soon better feelings

came, and I forgave him freely and fully,

and he died with his head on my breast. I

have gained the last victory over self, 1 have

found you, and you still love me ; I have

made my reparation, as far as it is in human

power. There is but one thing more that

distresses me, but one thing, my Mona,

and you can remedy that ; then I shall die

infinitely happy."

" What is it V " she cried, " what is it ? I
will give every drop of my heart's blood for
you."

" I only ask," he said, folding her closer
to his heart, "I only ask that ycu will let
the memory of my love and suffering drive
from your heart every dark thought; that
you will not murmur nor complain against
the power that has taken me from you after
this short reunion ; live calmly and patiently
as long as God wills it, and be assured al-
ways that even in heaven I shall be happier
if I know my Mona tries on earth to do as I
have wished."

" Oh ! " she sobbed, " I will try ; but you
cannot, you must not, leave me."

Constance was not prepared for such a
change in Mr. Vandeleur, and when she en-
tered the room she was so overcome by the
shock as scarcely to be able to reply to his
calm greeting.

" I am so glad you have come ; I feared
you would not arrive in time." Holding out
one hand, and placing the other on the head
of Mona, while he turned his earnest eyes to
Constance, he said, " This is my wife, and,
Mona, this is the dear and gentle lady who
first taught me my duty to you. If 1 have
done aught of good to my fellow-men, if I
have gained any conquest over self, it is to
her I owe the first impulse. You will al-
ways love her, and she will be kind to you
for my sake."

Mona raised her wistful eyes to the gentle
face bending over her, and said, with trem-
bling anxiety, " Do you think him so very
ill ? O, tell me he will not die ! "

" We will hope for the best ; wewi 1 ! pray
to God together," Constance replied, a. she
drew a chair near the. bed. "Let me watch
by him to-night, while you take a little
rest."

" No, no," she cried, almost fiercely ; " I
shall not leave him a moment ; my place is
here while he lives."
" Poor child ! " said the sickman with a gen-

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

Ill

tie smile, " she has watched over me day and
night, without food or sleep ; but her labor
of love will soon be over. Open the blinds
a little, darling, that I may look on the sea.
How calm and still all is, after the tumult
of the battle that has raged around us ! "

His eye fell on the ruined fort at the en-
trance of the harbor, its walls blackened
and crumbled by shot and shell.

" How like the life of man ! " he said. " A
few days ago it stood a strong, noble struc-
ture, defying wind and wave and the rava-
ges of time; towering in solitary grandeur
above the sea that now almost breaks over
its ruined walls. What nature hath spared,
the hellish passions of the human heart have
accomplished. It is fallen, a wreck, a
ghastly remnant of power; and I, lying
here and looking upon it for the last time,
with the waves of eternity almost flowing
over me, feel myself to be but the wreck of
my own passions and follies.

" O, how the past comes back to me !
those days of golden opportunity, of buoyant
hopes, the desires and dreams of my youth
unfulfilled in the long years wantonly squan-
dered, until the disgust, the weariness, the
heartache, the pain of remorse and regret,
gathered upon me a burden that was once
heavier than I could bear; but, thank God,
it has fallen away from me forever, and I
now stand on the threshold of eternity, as I
once stood at the dawn of life, eager and
longing to spring into the unknown. Con-
stance, since the day you pointed out to me
the weary path of duty, stripped from false-
hood the flimsy disguise I had called truth,
saying, with all the earnestness and fervor
of youthful virtue, ' Plappiness begins with
self-immolation,' God knows how I have
tried to prove the truth of your words, and
I trust it has not all been in vain. If I have
gained from the Father of infinite goodness
one smile of approval, I am content that my
labor is finished, yes, content. To-day,
when all is ended for me, and I am disinter-
ested in the things of earth, I speak with the
solemnity of one already on the confines of
eternity. If it were given to me to return
to the morning of my days, I would not re-
trace my steps, I would not renew again a
struggle with the world that never has in
any case given me the victory. It is a labor
as useless as Ixion's or the daughters of Da-
naus. Alas, no ! I am too weary ; I long for
the calm rest of eternity; I have tried to
school my heart and bend my stubborn will
to the Divine law, and I must now acknowl-
edge a superior justice and wisdom in all
this before which I am compelled to bow.
In this hour mercifully all remorse and re-
gret are taken from me, and I feel it sweet
to lie in the arms of God, as a child on its
mother's breast, leaving him to do whatso-
ever he wills."

\VLiK. Mona slept for a few moments by
his side, briefly and with much effort he told
Constance of his future arrangements for
her. " I have left her all my persona! prop-
erty," he said, "excepting some jewelry,
pictures, and statuary at llelmsfbnl, which
I beg you to accept as a remembrance of
one who, if fate had permitted, would have
loved you with the only love of his life.
You will be kind to this poor child after I
am gone, and strive to direct her sorrow in
the right channel; I fear for her; I never
knew the strength of her affection until now.
Ah ! if I had but made her my wife before,
what a noble, beautiful character she would
have become, how happy I might have been,
and Helmsford would not have been without
a Vandeleur ! But there is no one whom I
Avould rather leave its mistress than Lady
Dinsmore ; she is a perfect character, and
the parish will find in her a better friend
than I have been." Smoothing the hair of
Mona gently as she slept on his pillow, he
said again, " Be kind to her, and try and
soften her grief by your friendship and sym-
pathy. Poor darling ! I hope she will find
some consolation in her religioi."

Constance, with tearful eyes, promised all
he asked. Then, with flushing anu trem-
bling, she told him of her love for Guido and
of her engagement. Mr. Vandeleur pressed
her hand, and said fervently, " I am thankful
you have found happiness with another ; I
sometimes feared I had cast a shadow over
your life, and robbed you of your trust in
humanity."

" I did suffer very much at first," she
said in a low voice ; " but now I see it
was all for the best, for I never could
have loved you," she faltered, " as I love
Guido."

" Yes, dear, it was all for the best," he
replied, with a little sadness in his smile.
" We lay the axe to the root of the old
tree, and a new one springs up in its
place."

He said no more, but fell into a revery
that seemed to be happy, because of the
peace that brooded over his face.

Neither Lady Dinsmore nor Guido saw
him until the next morning; then their in-
terview was brief and sad ; he recommend-
ed Mona earnestly to the love and protec-
tion of her foster-brother, saying, " 1 know
that once your heart was filled with bitter-
ness against me, but now the, pressure of
your hand tells me I am forgiven."

" Do not speak of it," said Gr:ido. gently ;
" I forgot my enmity long ago ; Constance
taught me."

"You will bs mistress of Ilelm^ford," he
said, pressing with loeble fm_ v ers the, hand
of Lady Dinsmore; '-be kind to my poor
people, kinder than I have been."

"Yes," she replied, weeping, "I will

112

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

strive to be -what you would have been if
God had spared you longer."

"Promise me one thing," he continued
earnestly, "promise me that the first heir
born to Helmsford shall be called Richard
Vandeleur. Here on my death-bed I -will
leave him my name, and wish for him only
the good in my nature without the evil.
May his life be more worthy of his inherit-
ance than mine has been ! " He paused
from weakness, but after a moment he said
again to Lady Dinsmore, " And also promise
me to live in the old Hall half the year, and
speak of me sometimes to my tenantry. O
that I had done more for them, that my mem-
ory might have lived in their hearts ! " and
then, drawing Mona to him with a look of
love and anxiety, he placed her hand in
Lady Dinsmore's, saying, " Remember I
loved her, and she was worthy of it."

" I will remember it," she said, folding the
trembling weeper in her arms, and kissing
her tenderly ; " she too shall have a place in
my heart with those I already love."

" Thank you," he murmured drowsily ;
" now all is finished, I will sleep."

A few days passed, and they all knew his
hours were numbered ; each one augmented
his weakness, and drew to the finest fibre
the thread on which his life was suspended.
All united in affectionate care to render his
last hours calm and peaceful. Mona scarcely
quitted his pillow ; tender, eager, desperate,
her strength was almost superhuman ; she
seemed to have overcome the weakness of
nature ; not for worlds would she have lost
for one moment the loving gaze of the dear
eyes that were always fixed upon her face.
One day he felt a rain of hot tears on his
forehead, and, looking up, he said, " My dar-
ling, why do you weep to see me die ? I do
not suffer; let me lean my head on your
bosom."

She raised him tenderly, not allowing any
one to assist her, and, laying her tear- wet
cheek on his hair, she soothed him with
low whispers of love, mingled with strains
of music he had heard in other days.

He fell into a light slumber, and a smile
of joy passed over his face as he murmured
a fragment of an old song they had sung to-
gether years ago on the moonlit Adriatic.
All the intervening time of sorrow and suf-
fering was swept away forever, and now, dy-
ing^ on the bosom of the woman he had loved
in nis early youth, his soul floated back to
the calm and sweetness of those old days,
and like a child that smiles in its sleep at an
angel vision, he gave his hand to the great
Consoler, and stepped unhesitatingly beyond
the portal of life.

It was some time before they knew he had
ceased to live, for Mona sat like a statue re-

farding the immobile face long after the spirit
ad passed away. She did not moan nor cry.

Her tender, passionate grief seemed to have
ended with his life. Like Niobe, her face bore
the stony impress of a fixed anguish. With
a power which none could resist, she forced
them all to leave the room, performing her-
self the last offices necessary to the poor clay.
When the limbs were composed, and the
quiet hands folded over the pulseless breast,
she returned to her old seat by his side.
With her elbows on the, bed and her hands
pressed to her temples she gazed in stony
silence upon the face on which the angel of
death had set his seal of peace. Night and
day she watched over him while Guido made
the arrangements necessary for the trans-
portation of the body to England.

On the afternoon of the second day, the
funeral procession, under a military escort,
followed by the population of the city, amid
the tolling of bells and firing of cannon,
wended its way to the shore, where a ship,
with a black flag at half-mast, waited to re-
ceive the body.

The shore was lined for miles with men,
women, and children, all straining their
tearful eyes' for a last glimpse of the ship, as
she steamed swiftly out of the bay, bearing
the remains of one who in a brief time, by
his deeds of benevolence and kindness, had
won so deep a place in the affections of a
thousand poor hearts.

" Madonna santissima give his soul a quick
journey to paradise," said a woman, holding
her child up above the crowd, that he might
see the last flutter of the black flag. " He
gave his life for us. When shall another
noble heart like his come among us ? "

And so, followed by blessings and bene-
dictions, the ship passed out of sight, lost be-
tween the sky and the sea. And more gen-
uine and universal sorrow was felt for the
death of Richard Vandeleur than for all the
hundreds who had fallen in the battle.

Mona, locked alone in a room overlooking
the bay, with her cold hands clenched over
her forehead, a stern, set expression, around
her mouth, and her eyes wide' and tearless,
followed with intense gaze the way the ship
had taken until it grew a speck on the
waves, and the darkness hid it from her
sight.

Then, like Halcyone after her vision of
Ceyx, she arose, pacing frantically her nar-
row room, wringing and clenching her hands,
tearing her hair, and calling upon the de-
parted by every endearing name, repeating
it over and over, as though her voice could
penetrate the dull ear of death, " The
grave shall not separate us long. I will go
to thee. To live without thee I should be
more cruel to myself than death has been
to thee."

The dark spell she feared had indeed come
upon her, and nothing but the infinite power
and love of God could exorcise it.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

113

CHAPTER XLL

THE CONVENT OF THE SACUE* CCEUR.

IN a gloomy stone cell for penitents, in the
convent of the Sacre Cceur at Rome, sat
a nun on the edge of a narrow, hard bed.
By her side was a little wooden table, on
which lay a skull, a crucifix, and a knotted
cord. A small lamp threw a faint circle of
light around her and revealed a ghastly face,
large sunken eye?, and thin worn hands, that
held a rosary ; while with restless, nervous
fingers she counted one after another the
beads, muttering, in a hard, cold tone, Pater
noster and Hail Mary.

Nearly three months had passed since she
discovered Richard Vandeleur on the battle-
field of Castel Fidardo, and what ravages
that brief time had made in her face and
figure ! Every sign of youth seemed to have
vanished and left in its place a premature
old age, pitiful to look at. The few locks
of hair that escaped from the white bands
of her cap were streaked with gray ; the
skin was drawn over her forehead, leaving
the bones almost as visible as those of the
skull at her side ; her cheeks were hollow
and haggard ; her eyes, sunken into their
orbits, burned with a strange wild light ; her
lips, parched and drawn, revealed the dis-
colored teeth, from which tho gums seemed
to have receded ; her long, emaciated
fingers had the restless, writhing motion so
significant in those laboring under some
mental disease. From a neighboring tower
on the Janiculum soundec' the hour of mid-
night. Starting up and throwing the rosary
on the bed, she began pacing the floor and
talking rapidly to herself.

" It is no use. it is no use ; all this fast-
ing and penance, all the indulgences, all
the absolution, will not soften or purify my
heart. It is hard, hard as stone. 1 hate
every one and everything. If they would
not trouble me; if they would leave me day
and night alone with the memory of my
darling. I could kill those who tell me it is
a sin to think of him. Padre Stefano will
drive me to madness with his entreaties.
What have I to confess 7 Forever the same
thing, that my heart is filled, filled with
deadly hate for everything on the earth, and
everything in heaven but him. I hate man-
kind because one of the wretched race
parted us, and I hate God because when I
found him he would not spare him to me,
although I prayed as none ever prayed be-
fore, although I implored the Madonna
every moment while I bent over him, watch-
ing the life go away that I had ho power to
keep. And Padre Stefano tells me God is
merciful and the Madonna all love, and that
she answers our prayers when we ask for
her intercession. She has never heard me.
15

The hosts of heaven were deaf when 1 cried.
1 thought my agony would have moved the.
pity of the Father on his throne, but he has
no mercy for me. They have all eon-pired,
the powers of heaven and earth, to drive
me to eternal ruin. O," she cried, clamping
Jr.T h;mds above her head with an imploring
gesture, "my darling, my darling! it' it
were not for the fear of being shut out from
thee forever, I would end this qui<-kly and
come to thee. I believe this suH'erini: will
atone for my sins, and that after death (iod
will open the door and let me creep in, even
to thy feet."

Then, throwing herself on her knees be-
fore the crucifix, she poured out a torrent of
vehement, passionate prayers, that seemed
to exhaust the wasted body, for the lar_re
drops of sweat stood on her forehead, and
she leaned, panting for breath, against the
edge of the stone shelf that served fora bed.
Gradually the eyes closed, and the weary
head fell forward. She slept, but only a
moment, for she started up with a cry, and,
seizing the knotted cord, scourged herself
until her lips grew livid with pain. Then,
sinking back again on her bed, she mur-
mured, "Is this wasted and bleeding body
the thin"; he loved and worshipped once?
He would not let the winds of heaven visit
me too roughly, and now I cannot make my-
self suffer enough to deaden the agony of
my soul. But I shall leave this poor shell
behind mo. Happily I shall not take it into
his presence. Ah ! would he recognize in
me now the Mona he once loved 1 "

Going near the light, she drew from her
bosom a little bag of silk, and, taking from it
a folded paper, she opened it, and gazed with
intense fondness on two locks of hair, one
brown and slightly streaked with gray ; the
other of a darker hue, but soft and fine as the
threads of a silkworm.

" Ah," she said, " my precious treasure ! I
have not seen thee for three days because
Sister Agatha advised me to deny myself
that gratification and it would gain for me
an indulgence ; but it is folly to promise me
such impossibilities, to cheat my poor soul
out of a little happiness." She pressed the
two curls to her lips, cheek, and brow, and
then, putting them back reverently in their
silken cover, she concealed them under the
folds of her serge dress.

And so the long night wore away to the
wretched woman. Sometimes a few mo-
ments of broken sleep, then restless pacing
to and fro, or vehement praye> that surely
must have pierced the ears of the Almighty
as it ascended like a wail of anguish through
the silent air.

For several days after the death of Rich

ard Vandeleur, Lady Dinsmore, Constance,

! and Giu'do devoted themselves with untiring

1 patience to the half-insane creature. But

114

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

rJl their efforts to win her back to the in-
t( Tests of life were unavailing. The only
desire she ever expressed was to leave
Ancona, where everything reminded hei too
forcibly of the terrible scene through which
she had passed. Lady Dinsmore at once
acted upon this, and as it was of no interest
to Mona where she went, they all turned
their faces toward Rome. She met her
parents with the utmost indifference, scarcely
recognizing them, and utterty refusing to
pass one night under their roof. The only
place of refuge she desired was the walls of
a convent ; and so they took her directly to
the Sacre Cceur, that she might be near
Sister Agatha

They often visited her, but came away
more shocked each time by the terrible rav-
ages grief had made upon her.

Filomena would wring her hands and
say to Sister Agatha, with a burst of tears,
"1 have found her, but only to lose her
again in a more horrible manner. If some
relief does not come to her she will be Eiad,
but I am punished, I am punished justly."
It was evident remorse for some hidden sin
was preying upon her mind, which she either
had not the courage or the desire to confess.

One lovely morning Sister Agatha entered
the cell of Mona, and found her, as usual,
pacing restlessly its narrow limits. " Come,"
she said, putting her arm around the poor
mourner, and gently drawing her down by
her side, "come and rest here for a few
moments, and then we will go into the garden
for a little while The day is so lovely, the i
sky so blue v the sun so bright ana the j
birds sing so joyously. Let the great loving j
heart of Nature soothe and heal your suffer- ;
ing soul. You can pray to God as well !
under the blue dome of heaven as here in j
this narrow cell. 5 '

" No, no," she replied, shuddering, and
drawing away from the nun's encircling arm, ;
" I hate the day. I hate the sun and the
songs oi birds. My soul is dark ; all is dark
within me. I love not the great heart of
Nature, it does not beat for me."

" My poor child," said Sister Agatha, sol-
emnly, " you are selfish in your grisf, you
are wilfully blind to the consolation of your
religion. Believe me, there is no sorrow
Christ cannot cure. You turn away from
his pure pitying love, and cling to the mem-
ory ot a sinner."

" Hush ! " she cried, while a terrible look
shot from her eyes. " do not call him a sin-
ner. He died in the endeavor to save his
enemy. What more did Christ do than
that? It is useless labor to talk to me.
What do you know of joy or sorrow, you
who have never loved "

A furtivo flush passed over the patient
.ised tace ot Sister Agatha, as ehe replied :
" I have sufk'ted eveu as you suffer, and I

can pity you When 1 outwardly left the
world and hid my young- suffering life in a
convent, I did not put away the passion and
desire of a liuman heart. I could not tear
at once from my soul all the tender ioncdno-
for love and the glad sweet liie 1 had left.

" There were three of us, my sister, my
brother, and myself. We came of a noble
but impoverished family. It was early de-
cided that my sister, who was the eldest,
should marry, and I should take vows, as
our scanty means were only sufficient to
dower one. The husband selected for my
sister was a young man who had grown up
in our society. I cannot tell jou when I
loved him. I always loved him" My moth-
er died early ; my father was a stern, proud
man. There was no appeal, our fates were
fixed by our parents. I saw him married to
my sister, and then I hid my broken heart
in a living tomb. Not long after her mar-
riage my sister died. Then I might have
been his wife, but my vows separated us for-
ever. Mercifully that temptation was soon
over ; he died a year after his wife. But he
did not die in my arms ; that consolation
was denied me. 1 was striving to find peace
in our blessed religion. As I told you, when
I left the world I did not leave with ii the
unquiet, restless heart, the Icnping and
pining for the love I had known. My stern,
cold life was a poor substitute for the bright
happy home 1 had left. Not long alter, my
father died ; then my brother followed him
(o the silent land, my brother whom I
loved, and my last tie to earth. I could not
tee him, I could not close his eyes, I could
not receive his farewell. He died in Naples,
and only after seme days the sad news came
to me that he was no more. It was not un-
til every tie and idol was rent away, and I
stood alone before Cod, that I began to
lean upon him. I need not tell you of the
struggles, the prayers and penances, the
days and nights of sorrow, that filled up the
sum of my life. It was labor, constant, un-
remitting labor (or others, that healed, and
at last cured, my wounds. Or, perhaps, I
should say, it was because at that time 1 had
something to love ; for Guido was sent to
the hospital, and (o me he was an angel vis-
itant. I took him into my inmost heart.
What a comfort the child was to me ! My
interest in him has always been something
to live for. God sends us the cure we most
need. He saw an affection for some living
thing was necessary to soften my nature and
lead me to him, so he gave me that child.
Through him I was enabled to renew niy in-
terest in life, and was led patiently to strive
for an inheritance beyond."

When she had finished, Mona raised her
hollow eyes, and looked searchingly into the
face of her companion.

'' And is it possible thou hast so outlived

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

115

such sorrow that thou canst speak calmly of
it? No, no! my nature is not like thine.
Such hearts as mine break, they do not bend.
Nothing but death can heal my sorrow.
Time only augments it. I shall never again
smile in peace until the M'hite angel touches
me with his cold finger and stills my pulse
forever. Some one comes," she said, as
steps approached the door. " It is Padre
Stefano, and I hate him; he would teach
me to be faithless to Riccardo's memory."

But it was not Padre Stefano ; it was
Filornena. She entered nervously and sadly.
Going toward her daughter, she embraced
her and said, " Cam fiylia, the doctor has
come, wilt thou see him?"

" No," she replied, sternly, " I will not
see him. I am not sick in body, and who
can cure the malady of the soul ? No, I will
not see him. Why dost thou trouble me,
mad re mia ? "

Filomena clasped her hands in despair,
and said, with real anguish in her voice,
" The child will not save herself, neither
will she suffer us to help her."

At that moment Padre Stefano entered.
Mona buried her face in her hands, and re-
mained in stubborn silence.

" Hast thou scourged thyself, fasted, and
said thy fifty paternosters, my daughter ? "

Mona replied not.

" Hast thou tried to drive from thy heart
the memory of a sinner ? Hast thou cen-
tred all thy thoughts on the suffering son
of God ? Hast thou worn on thy breast the
relic of San Francesco ? "

" No," she said, starting up, " not the
relic of San Francesco, but another infinite-
ly more precious. Wilt thou see it? " and
she drew from her breast, with a defiant ex-
pression, the little silken bag. They all
gathered around her in silent expectation,
but started back in horror when they saw
the two locks of hair.

" There," she cried, " there are my relics,
more precious to me than saint's or Sav-
iour's."

" Daughter, daughter," said the priest,
sternly, " thou blasphemesfc. I fear neither
pr.iyer aor penance can atone for such sin.
Give me this object of idolatry, cast it from
tlvee as th >;i wouldst a loathsome thing; it is
that which keeps thy soul from God," and
as he spoke ha advanced to take it from her
hand.

With a piercing shriek she pressed it to
her breast, crying, " Do not touch me ! do
not touch this sacred relic, the only thing I
have of him ! No, no, let God curse me, but
I will not giye it up."

An ui'ly expression passed over the "ace
of Padre Stefano as he muttered, " She is
incorrigible. She merits excommunication."

" Pazienza, //m/re ?(o,"said Sister Agatha,
gently. " The poor soul is half mad with

suffering, and it is only love and kindness
that ran win her i^ack to the fold. Lc.ive
her to me. I soothe her, but you and Filo-
mena only irrita*

The priest left the cell with an angry
countenance, and soon after Filomena Ibl-
lowed. Again Sister Agatha drew the wo-
man to her side, and led her to talk of those
hours of happiness she had known in the
morning of her love. She smoothed and
kissed the silken ring of hair, gently direct-
ing her thoughts to the innocent little cherub
who waited tor her in the land of the blest.
j Gradually she became calm, and an hour
after, when Sister Agatha lefl her, she was
sleeping peacefully.

Filomena was waiting in the corridor, and
when the nun appeared, she clasped her
hands and said with eager excitement, " Let
me speak to you alone, I have something
to confess."

" Why do yoir not go to your confessor ? "
inquired the nun.

" Because I would rather speak to you,
I would rather ask your advice ; you are a
woman, and can understand me better. God
is angry, and he /rill not forgive me until I
have made some compensation for a wrong
I have committed."

She remained closeted lon<* with Sister
Agatha, and when she left the room her
eyes were red and swollen with much weep-
ing, but her manner was calmer and more
confident. At parting, Sister Agatha said,
" I fear it is too late, but we will do all that
is possible to discover the person."

A few days after. Guido held a long con-
ference with Sister Agatha, and when he
left her room his face was very happy, as
the face of one who has just known the ful-
filment of a long-cherished wish. He went
directly to the cell of Mona, for as her foster-
brother he had the privilege of sec-ing her
at any time. He found her sitting on the
edge of the bed, her head bent, and her
hands clasped with an air of the utmost
dejection. She looked up when he entered,
and her face lighted a little.

" Come sta, sorella mia ? " he inquired,
with his usual sweetness, as he drew a bench
near her, and took her wasted hand in his.

She sighed wearily and replied, " The
same, always the same, Guido."
" Why do you stay in this gloomy cell ?
A room lighted and more cheerful would
be less depressing."

'' No, no," with a movement of impa-
tience. "The light huris me, I am better in
gloom and darkness."

" Do you ever think, earn mia, of those
old days when we played together in the
garden at Santo Spirito?" he said Mittlv.
" It was lung ago, but they were happy days,
were they not ? "

" I have forgotten," she replied, with in-

116

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

difference ; " I only remember the hours I
passed with him ; all else is a blank."

" Tell me something of him ; you have
never told me of the time you passed with
him."

Her face softened as she recounted, almost
minutely, the history of the sweet peaceful
hours that she had lived with him, believing
herself to have been his wife ; for she seemed
to have forgotten the revelation that parted
them, and always spoke of him as marito
mio. With gentle thoughtfulness Guido led
her to speak of the scenes that would soften
her heart, thinking all the while if she would
but weep she might be saved.

"And in those days you always desired
to please him you loved, did you not ? "

" O yes i 1 obeyed his slightest wish."

" Then why have you not obeyed the wish
he expressed* when he lay dying in your
arms ? "

" What wish ? " she said, vaguely. " I do
not know. J do not remember."

" The wish that the memory of his love
should make you happy even after he had
left you."

" Happy ! " she repeated ; " how can I be
happy when he is dead ? "

" Remember how he loved you, how kind
and gentle he was. He would not like to
see his darling so hard and cold. He would
rather she would weep tender tears, remem-
bering always his love, and thinking always
of him as a happy spirit in paradise."

" I cannot weep," she said in softer tones.
" O Guido ! my brain is dry and burning.
Tears would cool and refresh me, but I can-
not weep."

" Listen, my sister ; do you know that,
though you cannot see him, your beloved
is ever near you ? It is my belief that the
spirits of our precious dead linger around
us always, until our freed souls join theirs ;
then together we take our flight, to the para-
dise of the blest."

A dimness passed over her eyes, and her
lips quivered as she said with eagerness,
" Do you think he is near me ? and does he
know what I suffer ? If so, why does he not
comfort me ? "

" Mona," replied Guido, solemnly, " you
repel him ; you drive him from you by your
hardness an stubborn grief. In life* he
would not have loved such a nature ; and
now his spirit, made more gentle and patient
by the love of God and the light of eternity,
finds no sympathy, no fellowship, with your
dark thoughts. Try to be angelic as he is,
and you will understand and know he is near
you."

" O Guido, Guido 1 " f he cried, clasping
her hands, while her whole being trembled
with a new emotion, " I bless you for such a
hope. It may be my salvation."

Guido felt that then was the moment to

work his charm. Whether by the power of
illusion or the mercy of God, his only desire
was to lead this poor wandering soul to the
light. Fixing his soft eyes upon her, ten-
der with the yearning pity of his soul, and
concentrating all the sweetness and pathos
possible in his marvellous voice, he sang
the song that Richard Vandeleur had best
loved, a few notes of which had trembled on
his lips as his soul took its flight.

It was strange to watch the varying ex-
pressions that passed over her face as the
power of light and darkness struggled to-
gether for the victory. But the demons
were subdued and the Furies wept when
Orpheus sang in the Stygian realm ; and
now, as the waves of sound arose and floated
around her, the dews of emotion gathered
and fell in a rain of tears oVer her pale
cheeks and burning hands.

Guido bent his knee before the crucifix a
moment in silent prayer, and then went out,
leaving her to weep alone.

CHAPTER XLIL

NEITHER POVERTY NOR SHAME.

was great astonishment expressed
JL in society when it was known that Mrs.
Tremaine was the affianced wife of Mr. Car-
negie.

Mrs. Parlby shook her head dolorously,
and said, " What a pity for such a nice man
to sacrifice himself so completely ! " And
many of her disciples remarked with sugges-
tive ncds and grimaces, " What a fool a
man must be to marry a woman who has
flirted with the Prince Conti ! If Carnegie
does not want a scandal, he had better not
allow her to remain in Rome this winter.
Of course she does not love him. Her en-
gagement is only a protection for her repu-
tation. She will carry on the same disgrace-
ful intrigue as before."

These remarks may have been true t some
extent, though vulgarly expressed. But in
vain the Argus eyes of society watched her,
and could discover nothing. Slander, like
the unsatisfied maw of Erisicthon, prowled
about for something to appease the craving
of its terrible appetite, but Mrs. Tremaine
furnished nothing. Calm, serene, and more
lovely than ever because of the slight veil
sentiment, as the romantic called it, threw
over her dazzling beauty, she was always
with Mr. Carnegie, and a more undemon-
strative, self-sustained lover never pleased
the good taste of exacting Madame Eti-
quette. Helen met the Prince Conti when
it was unavoidable, but with a certain man-
ner which seemed to say, " Thus far shalt
thou come, but no farther." At first he had

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

117

noi believed it when she said " All is over
betiveea us forever." But now the truth
bagan to dawn upon him. Wounded van-
ity, and perhaps the loss of the truest love
he had ever known, mingled with a sense of
defeat, gnawed at his very heart with disap-
pointment, regret, and remorse, that made
him but the semblance of his proud, impe-
rious self. All noticed the change, and those
who had suffered some pangs caused by his
manly beauty exulted silently that now the
tables were turned, and the destroying angel
was being himself destroyed and consumed
by the ardent flame the mischievous little god
had kindled in his hitherto obdurate heart.

" Ah ! he is really in love now," they said.
" Bravo ! La bella bionda has revenged our
wrongs. He has walked over many a heart
and crushed it under his proud foot. Let
him suffer a little ; it will do him good."

And so the tide turned in favor of Mrs.
Tremaine, who went on her own way proud-
ly and serenely, sufficiently employed in
wearing her mask in a way to hide her real
feelings, and in hushing and subduing the
clamorous cries of her heart, so that the
world around her might not suspect that she
was acting a part. Mr. Carnegie was quietly
happy, contented to wait, believing that
when the old love had died a natural death,
Phoenix-like, a new would spring from its
ashes.

Ludy Dinsmore had often wondered how
society would receive Constance when it
knew she was the affianced wife of one
against whom, in spite of his talents and
noble life, it had raised its unjust barriers.
Sometimes she was a little anxious, fearing
Constance might be wounded by imperti-
nence or coldness ; but when she saw how
indifferent the parties most concerned were,
she let matters take their course, giving
herself no further uneasiness.

In the beginning of the season a clique
headed by Mrs. Parlby, who had never for-
given Guido, and a few other parvenus, de-
cided to place its ban on the gentle girl
who had listened to the voice of affection
rather than pride. The manner in which
they showed their petty intention was by
no longer including Constance and Guido
in their invitations to balls and assemblies
where the attendance of Lady Dinsmore and
her daughter was solicited.

" Why do you refuse so many invitations
this winter, mamma ? " inquired Florence, a
little pettishly, for Lady Dinsmore invariably
sent a regret when Constance and Guido
were not included.

"My dear, you forget I am wearing
mourning for poor Mr. Vandeleur, and I do
not wish to go much into society."

" O mamma, he was only a second or
third cousin, and no one wears deep mourn-
ing for such distant relatives."

"Nevermind, my darling, he was one of
our family, and I choose to respect his mem-
ory."

Fitzhaven, young, immensely rich, and
noble, was an excellent fish lor aspiring
mammas to angle after. But, strange :
all their seductions were in vain, ibr he
never appeared in society except in company
with Lad\- Dinsmore and her daughter. Be-
fore half the season was over this disinter-
ested clique began to discover they had
made a terrible mistake, for the rank and
wealth of Lady Dinsmore gave her
into society they dared not aspire to; so by
banishing a poor Italian maestro and an un-
pretending girl they had lost the acquaint-
ance of the most eligible of the English
nobility in Rome.

Guido was aware of all this, and secretly
grieved a little, but said nothing to Con-
stance, who was so happy and contented in
his love, that, if she noticed it, it never
caused her a pang.

" Dear noble heart," he often thought,
looking at her with adoring eyes, "I
wish I were a king on a throne for her
sake."

Sometimes he did speak to Lady Dins-
more of the change in society. She would
smile, and say gently, "Never mind, my dear
boy, it will be differ, nt in England. There
the history of your birth will not be gi n-
erally known. I shall see you yet in a posi-
tion none will despise."

One morning Lady Dinsmore sat alone
in her drawing-room. Florence had gone
to ride with Air. Carnegie and Mrs. Tre-
maine. A servant brought her a liote ; she
opened it and read :

"DEAR LADY DINSMORE, Shall you
be alone at five o'clock ? I wish to talk
with you on a matter of importance. May I
come to you at that hour ?

" GUIDO."

" What can it be ? " she thought, as she
hastily wrote an answer, which she gave to
the servant, who immediately left the room.
At that moment the thought occurred to her
to tell him to come directly, as by five o'clock
her daughter would have returned, or she
might have visitors. Hastening after the
servant to change the reply, she opened the
door jusfras he was giving it into thi' hand
of a respectable-!ooking,wi>ll-;hvssed woman.
It was Filomena, who had brought (luido's
note. Lady Dinsmore uttered an exclama-
tion of surprise, and desired her to enter the
drawing-room. When she had closed the
dour against the curiosity of the fo,
she directed Filomena to sit dov.-n, and,
drawing her arm-chair near her. I

:;.(! str:ulily at tin. 1 ml rtain on the
woman's ii'e:-.

Lady Dinsmorc was very pale, and her

118

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

voice shook as she said, " Filomena, do you
remember me ? "

" No, Signora mia," she replied, a little
doubtfully, ' ; I think I have never seen you
before."

" Do you not remember the poor English
girl you nursed once through a long illness,
and whose baby died in your arms ? "

" Dio mio ! " she cried. " Yes, I remem-
ber her too well. I would search the world
over to find her. Do you know her ? Can
you tell me where she is ? "

" I am she," replied Lady Dinsmore, with
quivering voice and tearful eyes ; for the
sight of this woman, whose not unkind face
with its red stain had bent over her hour af-
ter hour of her weary convalescence, brought
back too vividly many painful memories.

Filomena passed her hand over her eyes
as if to clear her vision, and then looked with
an intense scrutiny into the pale face before
her. " It cannot be the same," she said, " it
cannot be ! But I forget, it was so long
ago, and time changes us all. Are you in-
deed the same ? Do not deceive me."

" 1 am the same," replied. Lady Dinsmore,
with a sudden pulsation of the heart. " But
why are you so excited ? "

" O my lady 1 " she cried, falling on her
knees and clasping her hands, " I have a
confession to make to you, a strange con-
fession ; but first promise me you will forgive
me, and I will tell you all."

" Certainly, I will forgive you, my poor
woman ; only tell me, do not keep me in
suspense," she said, struggling to maintain
her composure.

" O Signora ! your child did not die ; I
deceived you, he did not die."

" Did not die," she echoed, in a voice
between a cry and a prayer. " Oh ! tell me,
does he live now 2 "

" Ye*, he lives."

" Where is he ? Who is he ? "

" He is the maestro, Signor Guido."

" O Guido, my child ! " she cried, raising
her eyes beaming with gratitude, " my heart
knew you and acknowledged you the first
moment I saw you. Thank God that in
spite of time and mystery my child still
lives." Then, controlling her rapture, she
said more calmly, " My good woman, are
you prepared to prove this ? Are you sure
there is no mistake ? "

" I am sure," replied Filomena. " I have
every proof. But listen, Signora mia, and I
will tell you all the story. After you were
taken so ill with fever you were unable to
nurse the child. The doctor ordererl a wet-
nurse, and I was the one chosen. My only
child, a boy, was seven days old when I
went to you. He *as a lovely child, but so
delicate and small, he seemed no older than
the new-born babe. They looked much
alike, and sometimes only for the dress 1

could scarcely tell one from the other. I
had lost three ; my poor Benedetto was very
miserable because they all died, and when
this little thing was born our hearts were
bound up in it. But alas ! we were very
poor, so poor that I was obliged to go into
service to get food for myself to nouri.-h my
child. It was sick and very fretful, crying
almost constantly. In fact, it occupied to
much of my time that I could neither attend
to you nor nurse your child properly. Then
the doctor told me I must send my baby to
the hospital or leave my situation. Sig-
nora ! it was a dreadful trial for me. I loved
this poor little feeble sick thing, and I could
not bear to send it away from me. Then
the thought entered my mind to send your
child instead, and keep mine with me. You
were unconscious and would never knoAv it,
and I thought in all probability you would
die, and your child would then have to be
sent to the Foundling Hospital, but in case
you lived I would bring it back, and you
never need know it had been away from you.
I was not long in acting upon this tempta-
tion. Just as I had finished dressing my
child in a suit of the delicate little clothes
belonging to you, the doctor entered, and I
had no time to change the rich robe of the
other for the coarse poor things I had taken
off my baby. Fearing I might be detected
in my deception, I folded it in a shawl and
hastened away, leaving my baby in its deli-
cate robes sleeping by your side.

" When I reached ihe hospital I dared not
present myself before Sister Agatha, who
knew me well, with a child dressed in costly
linen and lace ; flic would know at once it
was not mine, and suspect some fraud. So
I rang the bell, placed it in the basket, and
hurried away without a word. Seven days
after, my baby died with cramps ; it was
only sick a few hours. My <.riiet was terri-
ble, for I considered it a just punishment
from God for the sin I had committed. But
I determined after you died, for I expected
your death momently, to take your child
from the hospital, and love and care for it
as though it were my own. Much to my
astonishment you lived and returned to con-
sciousness, and your first words were a demand
for your child. Then, too afraid to confess
what I had done, I was obliged to tell you it
wns dead. You were so quiet, and never wept
nor moaned for it, so I thought pardon
me, Signora, I thought it was sonic dis-
grazia, and you were glad it was gone.

" Then you know what followed. The
gentleman came to take you away, but be-
fore leaving you wished to sec the grave
of your child. I accompanied you to the
Campo Santo, and showed you the little
mound that covered my baby ; and all the
while my heart was breaking with remorse
and grief at the deception.

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

110

" As soon as you were gone I went to the
hospital and asked for a child to nurse, toll-
ing Sister Agatha mine was dead. J saw at
once she was very fond of the little Guido,
who was as lovely as an angel. She did not
wish me to take it away, bat 1 would have no
other, and so she reluctantly consented. I
loved it dearly ; in a little while it took the
place of my dead baby. I cared for it tenderly,
perhaps more tenderly because of the re-
morse that was work in-- in. my heart. But we
were so poor I could not keep it long ; 1 had
to go into service again, and my Benedetto
mnrb me carry it back to the hospital.
Then my Mona was born, my last child,
but I never lost sight of Guido. I did all I
could for the little angel in my poor way.
He did not need me ; he was the pet of the
institution, and the especial charge of Sister
Agatha. I saw him grow up talented, be-
loved, and respected ; still I knew I had
committed a great sin in keeping him from
his family, but after you were gone it was too
late to restore him to you. I did not know
your name, nor where you had gone, and
each year that passed made it more impossi-
ble to discover you.

" When my Mona was taken away from
me, and all my trouble came, I knew it was
a punishment from God, who would not for-
give me -until I had made confession and
reparation. Yet for some reason I could
not go to a priest. I preferred to tell Sister
Agatha, and she promised to do all that was
possible to discover the parents of Guido,
and also to tell him the whole story, which
she did this morning. It was to speak of this
to you that he wished to see you to-day. It
seems to me that the blessed Madonna has 1
heard my prayer, and with my first effort
to do right, she has -.-wisted me by bring-
ing me to you. Now I '* ; i jve my child will
be cured ! "

Lady Dinsmore had listened to Filo-
mena's recital in breathless silence, and
when the woman had finished she said,
" Was aqy other person acquainted . with
this secret but yourself? "

" Only my Benedetto, Signora ; the people
in the house and the doctor believed it
was your child that died."

" But there is one thing that I cannot
understand, how he bears the name of his
father."

" Ah, Sir/nnrrt, no one knew it to be the
name of his father. His name was given to
him by Sister Agatha; she called him Guido
Bernardo for her only brother, who died in
Naples a few weeks before."

u How mysterious are thy ways, O God ! "
said Lady Diusmore. " This woman who
was so kind to my darling child must b; 1 H.V
husband's sister, the nun he so often spoke
of." L >::king steadily into the eyes of Filo-
mena, she; said, almost sternly, "I believe
10

you have told me the truth. 11>e'ieve thi.s
young man is indeed my child, my hc.irt
tells me so, but are you prepared with your
husband to assert this on your oath V "

"Yes, with a thousand oaths if it is ne-
cessary; but O tiiynora mid! tell me you
forgive me, and will not punish me ! "

" Yon did me a great wrong, 'n
j you fully and 1'reely. My heart is too full
I of gratitude to cherish resentment. Now
| go, 1 need to be alone ; go, and si u 1 Si .'nor
i Guido to me directly ; do not speak to i
| what has occurred. I wish to be the first
to tell him he is my child."

An hour after, when Guido en ten- 1 the
room, Lady Dinmore came toward him with
extended arms, and, throwing herself on his
breast, amid tears and sobs, >he exclaimed,
" My child, my darling child ! "

Guido thought for a moment she was la-
boring under some mental derangement,
until with a great effort she calmed herself
so as to speak coherently. Then she drew
him down by her side, and with his hands
clasped in hers, she told him all the. story
that Filoinena had just related to her. Jt
is needless to dsscribe the explanation*, the
surprise, the joy and rapture of the mother
and child, who loved each other tenderly
bafore they knew of the tie existing between
them. Lady Diasmoro pushed back the
hair from Guide's forehead, and, looking into
his face, believed she discovered a luiii-
| dred traces of resemblance to the 1>:
dead that she had not noticed before.
i As she leaned her head on the shoulder of
her child, the past came back so vividly
I that she almost thought it to be the Guido
I of her youth who caressed her, instead of his
: son.

Florence's astonishment was no sweater
i than her delight when she knew (Juid.) was
j her brother. What an infinity of quest loin
had to be answered, what expla
revelations, before all were satisfied and
convinced ! But at the end of a week it was
' known throughout Rome, both in Italian
'and foreign society, that the poor young
I singer, the foundling of Santo Spirito. was
legally acknowledged as the legitim::'
! of a noble English lady. Then how Mrs.
Gr.indy regretted, and Mrs. Parlby and her
clique sighed, because they had not had
; discernment enough to discover the blue.
b!o:xl ! But it was too late; society lia I
made one of its stupid mistakes, wlti.-h it,
tried to atone for afterwards by ci :
and fawning and r.seles-; sycophancy.

Constance did feel a little exnlnrion in
her heart, but she looked into (liiMY
with the same true eyes, and said,
must not think I love you any better, or (eel
any more pride in you, now I ki\'>w
lie Lidv Din.-.more's son, than I did luvbiv.
It is you I love, your own dear, noble sell."

120

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

" Ah, my darling," he replied fondly, " it
is a beautii'ul reward for your disinterested
love : 1 am so thankful, now I can give you
a position worthy of you."

There was a visit of the whole happy
party to Sister Agatha, and an affecting in-
terview between her and Lady Dinsmore.
The little bundle of linen and lace was
brought out, examined, and wept over with
tears of mingled joy and sadness. Then
Sister Agatha put them reverently away,
for they seemed a part of the little angel
who had nestled so lovingly to her lonely
heart.

Lady Dinsmore would scarcely spare her
son from her sight. She was not contented
until he was living under the same roof, sat
opposite her at table, was the first to wel-
come her in the morning, and the last to say
good night. If Florence had been less amia-
ble, and if her affections had not been be-
stowed on another, she might have been a
little jealous ; but as it was, she only assisted
her mamma to pet and spoil her new-found
brother.

Guido was supremely happy. One by
one the sorrows of his life had been taken
away, and now he seemed endowed with
every blessing ; a mother, sister, love,
friends, wealth, and birth were all bestowed
upon him by the munificent hand of the
Giver of good. He acknowledged it all with
solemn gratitude, and in the true piety of
his nature prayed for humility, lest his pros-
perity should cause him to forget the sad
discipline of his life.

There was a festa at the Sacre Cceur, and
Guido had promised the Superior to sing
the vespers. Lady Dinsmore and Constance
were there, and before the altar knelt Filo-
mena, apparently praying devoutly, but at
the same time glancing anxiously at the
private door which led from the chapel to
the convent. All the nuns had entered, and
were kneeling in their respective places,
their black-veiled heads bowed over their
rosaries. The altar-boy was lighting the
candles around the altar, and the officiating
priest, in his robes of lace and gold-embroi-
dered stole, was muttering in an indistinct
voice the prayers. It was an hour before
A ve Maria, and the golden sunlight fell in
long, slanting rays through the pictured
windows of the little chapel, turning into
dusky gold the branched candlesticks of the
altar. All was silence, save the murmuring
of the priest, the tinkling of the swinging
censer, and the low solemn tones of the
organ.

Filomena's face lighted as the door softly
opened and Moca entered, leaning on the
arm of Sister Agatha. Her face was as
ghastly pale as ever, but her lips had lost j
their hard expression, and her eyes their j
wild, restless stare. She knelt between j

her mother and Sister Agatha at the altar,
and, burying her face in her hands, re-
mained as motionless as a statue.

The little chapel was filled with the sweet-
est harmony as Guido sang. The streams of
sunlight grew dusky and faint. The white
cloud of incense rose and floated away into
the arched roof, like the soft flutter of an an-
gel's wing. The face of the marble Madon-
na beamed with infinite love as she bent
over the sleeping child in her arms. The
wounds of the crucified Christ Deemed to
bleed afresh, and the tears to flow down his
worn face. All was pity, tenderness, and
calm. The twilight hour, the exquisite mu-
sic, and the solemn silence of each kneeling
worshipper, were a spell of peace that could
not fail to soothe and calm the restless heart
of the mourner. Gradually the dark cloud
that had enshrouded her so long rose and
floated away, and she saw the blue heavens
pierced with angel faces, which all smiled
compassion and pity upon her. And one
who bore the likeness of him she had loved
on earth stretched out his arms, seeming to
draw her up even to the throne of Him who
sitteth in the heavens.

Sister Agatha saw a smile of almost ecs-
tasy pass over her face, as she clasped her
hands and raised her eyes to the pictured
Christ bending above her, and Filomena,
who was watching her, knew that her child
was saved. The consolation of her holy re-
ligion, and the power of music, blessed by
God, had exorcised the dark spirit, as when
the youthful David touched his harp and
sang before Saul.

CHAPTER XLIII.

UNDER THE LIGHT OF STARS.

" YTOU are not well this evening, Helen,"
JL said Mr. Carnegie to Mrs. Tremaine,
who was waiting in the drawing-room for
the carriage. She looked exquisitely love-
ly as she stood, the toe of her satin slipper
on the fender, and her round white arm
resting on the velvet cover of the mantel-
piece. Her dress, the most delicate shade of
Rembrandt green, set off to advantage her
golden hair and fair complexion.

As Mr. Carnegie looked at her in undis-
guised admiration, perhaps the regret that a
thing so lovely must fade caused his remark
respecting her health. " You dear silly
goose," she said, lightly tapping his cheek
with her fan, " why .do you think I am not
well? I was never in better health and
spirits in my life."

' 1 hope you speak the truth, Helen." he
replied gravely, u but that strange white-
ness around your mouth, and thote fitful red

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

121

spots on your cheeks, do not denote health.
1 think the excitement of the winter i- wear-
ing you out. I am glad the season is nearly
ended, I hope we shall be quieter after it."

" Yes, I hope so," she replied in a low
voice, pressing her hand to her side, for a
sharp spasm almost wrenched a cry from her
lips.

The servant announced the carriage and,
a moment after, Constance and Madame
Landel entered the room, b5th in evening
dress. They were going to a ball at the Tor-
Ionia Palace, the crowning magnificence
of the season. Lady Dinsmore, since the
discovery of her son, as she was anxious to
present him to the best society, accepted in-
vitations where she had declined before. It
was an evening of triumph for Guido, for
among the many distinguished guests none
received more nattering attention. His
youth and talents, connected with his sin-
gular and romantic history, excited in the
minds of all a lively interest. The Mrs.
Pari by clique were not admitted to this re-
chei'c/tc assembly, so there were few to make
envious and malicious remarks. His old
iriend and patron, Cardinal Catrucci, was
present, and his congratulations were most
sincere and cordial. " I always thought the
dear boy was made of something more than
common clay," he said to Lady Dinsmore,
in reply to her almost tearful thanks for
the interest he had taken in her son.

And Constance commanded a due share
of admiration, principally for her beauty and
grace, but also for her unselfish loyal love,
that had accepted the young man when he
had nothing to recommend him but his no-
ble, gentle character. " What a beautifiil
proof of love ! " many said admiringly, " and
how justly her devotion is rewarded ! " Con-
stance would have been happy and contented
with her choice if there had been no change
in his position ; but I must avow her wo-
man's heart throbbed a little with gratified
pride when she saw Guido surrounded by
the most distinguished persons present.

Lady Dinsmore seemed to have renewed
her youth ; she was smiling, almost brilliant,
and Florence trembled anil blushed like an
opening rose under the admiring gaze of
Fitzhaven, who scarcely lefc her side.

" What a charming group of youth and
beauty ! " said the old Prince Torlonia.
" Lady Dinsmore, I congratulate you ; you
have under your charge three, of the most
lovely Indies in the assembly, different
types, but 1 cannot tell which I admire
most."

"Thanks," said Lady Dinsmore, smiling,
"I call them all my children, and I canuol.
tell which I love best."

' Ilri;>;>y children, to be blessed with such
a mot'u'i," he replied, bowing gallantly as
..e,d away.

Scarcely had Mrs. Tremainc entered the
ball-room when the Prince Conti was at her
side, card in hand, soliciting for a wait/..

' You must excuse me," she said, de-
cidedly, but sweetly, while ^he clunj, to .Mr.
Carnegie's arm. " I shall only waltz once
this evening, and with but one person."

" Then a quadrille ? " he continued, ea-
gerly.

" I am already engaged to the Duke of
Fitzhaven for the single quadrille 1 shall
dance."

His brow lowered, and he bit his lip as he
turned away without a word.

"Why did you not dance with him ju-t
once, Helen? "said Mr. Carnegie. "The
refusal seemed a little singular ; I think it
would be more politic to dance with him
once."

"If I dance with him at all, I shall dance
with him more than once," she replied, rais-
ing her truthful eyes to his face. ' Pray, do
not question my decision. Believe me, it is
best."

He said nothing, but sighed heavily, look-
ing after her, and sighing again and a'j;ain,
as Fitzhaven led her away for the quadrille
she had promised him. Then he went to
seek Florence, to whom he was engaged for
the same dance.

"Leave me alone for a moment," said
Mrs. Tremaine, as Fitzhaven, after the qua-
drille, led her to a seat in an alcove, where a
large window opened on a balcony. " Let
me sit here and dream a little ; it is so cool
and refreshing."

" Just as you wish," he replied. " I am
engaged to Miss Wilbreham for the next
dance ; after that I will bring her to you."

So he went oft' gayly to find Constance,
and Mrs. Tremaine, glancing around to see
that no one observed her, stepped out <m the
balcony, and, leaning over the stone balus-
trade, looked down into the r.-xe-^irdeu
below. It was a moonless ni^ht, but the
heavens were radiant with the liuht of stars.
The heavy air lay in a level calm around
her; nature seemed reposing in a languid
sort of swoon, faint and oppressed v.-'nh the
odor that Flora showered from her open
hand. The sad, silent city was slir.nl), -ring
beneath her, like an aged, exha^'ed mourn-
er, who composes her limbs and f;>l.!
weeds about her, sleepin r, as she had
slept for centuries, pnlsele-s. p:^ e.nle^s,
;<n 1 serene. The music floated out on the.
perfumed air; the s:>und of r-vehy, the
merry voices, the Ihht ! '! as

sumed strange weird tones (!
scarcely human to her morbid mind. She
th uuh't, " They are likj the mocking voices
of fiends."

A demon stirred the lu-ivy air, ami b
serpent-like in her ear, " <> 'he '
life! the hollowiicss of joy ! Know yo

122

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

not that each gay reveller is but a ghastly
skeleton ; that youth, beauty, and mirth are
but the masks men wear ; that under the
smiling exterior is the heart filled with
hot and seething passions, envy, malice,
hate, revenge, falsehood, deceit, and incon-
stancy ; that life is but a mad masquerade,
that will end suddenly when the great bell
of doomsday sounds, and in the presence
of the stern Judge every passion of the
human heart shall be laid bare, every secret
of the soul exposed to the searching white
light of eternity ? "

Thoughts like these rolled and surged
through her brain until she clasped her
hands to her head, and murmured, " O my
God ! I believe madness is coming upon me.
Above the excitement, the pomp and fashion
of life, these dark thoughts ever assert them-
selves. O, it is true when we drive from
our hearts the angels of love and peace,
demons take possession of the empty cham-
bers, holding mad revels that waste and
destroy the frail tenant ! " She pressed
her hand with a gesture of agony over her
heart, and raised her eyes as if to draw pity
from the silent stars.

At that moment a man stepped out of a
door at the farther end of the balcony. It
was the Prince Conti. In spite of the dark-
ness he recognized her instantly,and, coming
toward her, said, with eager joy in his voice,
" At last I have found you alone. All the
saints be praised for this opportunity 1 "

She did not reply, but, sweeping back her
robes with an imperious motion, and raising
her head haughtily, she turned to enter the
ball-room.

" For God's sake, Helen, stop a moment,
I have much to say to you ! " he cried, in a
suppressed voice, seizing her hand.

" What can the Prince Conti have to say
to me ? " she inquired, in a tone that con-
tained not an inflection of tenderness,
calm, clear, and cutting, as the light of the
moon reflected from an icicle.

" What can I have to say to you ? what
can a heart mad with passionate love have
to say to the object of its adoration ? "

" Oh ! " she answered, with a little scorn-
ful laugh. " But the same old story you re-
peated long, long ago. It has lost its interest,
because it contains nothing original, nothing
new."

He looked at her a moment in mute aston-
ishment. " Madre di Dw, can this be the
woman who less than a year ago told me
she loved me ? "

" The very same," she replied, lightly.

" Helen Tremaine, do you dare to trifle
so with me ? " Coming nearer, he grasped
her arm with a force and passion that left
the imprint of his fingers on her white flesh.

She drew herself away with a look that
made him tremble. Her mouth quivered,

and something like tears started to her eye$
as she cried in a voice filled with the strengtk
of scorn, "Love is not won by brutality,
neither is respect ! Prince Conti, nearly a
year ago I told you all was over between us
forever; and when I spoke those words, I
spoke them with the truth of one standing
in the presence of God. They admit of no
change, no equivocation ; they are as final,
as irrevocable, as the sound of the trumpet
at doomsday. They were not words spoken
from lip to lip, but from soul to soul. If
you have not understocd them, it is because
there is no germ of truth in your nature ; I
told you I loved you then, I did love you
then, but but I love you no more." She
stopped; her voice was cut cff suddenly, as
suddenly as a thunderbolt descends from the
sky ; the words seemed to cleave the air
around her, and die in the essence of siler.ee.
Neither spoke for a moment, but each stood
looking into the face of the other, demons
struggling in the forms of angels.

" And you love me no more V " he srid at
last, in a voice of mingled scorn, grief, and
incredulity.

" I love you no more," she replied between
her set teeth, with a sort of gasp that ended
in a sob.

" O fair and false, you lied to me ! You
never loved me."

She grasped the railing a moment for sup-
port as she replied, in a voice that seemed to
be sinking lower and lower, " I thought I
did ; do not reproach me, 1 thought I did."

" Curse you ! " he cried, with smothered
wrath. " You are all false. Curse you again
and again ! "

^Fcr a moment she forgot herself. Spring-
ing forward, she clasped his hands, crying,
" O Ortensio, do not say that ! it is too ter-
rible."

All the fierce passion of his nature was
aroused withim him, and, flinging off her
hands, he hissed out, " Try no more of
your blandishments en me. There are
others, who do not know you, to be your
victims. You have played with me, and
now you fling me away like a ruined toy."

A strange expression passed over her
face. She folded her arms and drew herself
up to her most queenly height, and h oking at
him with a little light laugh, she said, "Why
do you blame me that I have taken the initi-
ative in my own hands ? If I had not de-
ceived you, you would have deceived me,
n'est-ce pas, mon ami ? Rather admire me
that I was clever enough to be so good an
actor."

All the passion faded cut of his face. He
stepped away from her and regarded her
a moment with something like contempt.
Then he said in a voice a? calm and clear as
hers, " Is it possible you are Helen Tre-
maSne, the woman who less than a year a^o

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

1 _<

clung to my breast, and spoke to me in
words sweet, pure, and tender as an angel's,
words that lifted my heart for a moment
from the baseness of earth to the truth and
holiness of heaven, words that have ever
since sounded in my ears as the prayers my
mother breathed over my cradle, words
that mado me believe there were truth and
purity in the heart of a woman ? And they
were false ? and all that scene was but
acting ? I had enshrined you in my heart
as the most noble, as well as the most beau-
tiful. Why, why have you undeceived me ?
You have done yourself an irreparable in-
jury, for I now despise what I have wor-
shipped." For a moment he covered his
face with his hands, and something like a
sob burst from his full heart. Then he
raised his head, his eyes gleaming like
fire, and shaking his hands menacingly at
her, he cried, " O woman, beware how you
kindle this hell of passion in the heart of a
man, and then strive to extinguish it by :
falsehood and scorn ! Your day of punish- j
ment will come when there will be none to !
listen to the cries of your needy soul. I j
despise you as much as I once loved you, !
and 1 never wish to behold you again."

With a last glance of mingled scorn and
anger, he turned and strode away.

She stepped forward, reached out her j
arm?, and tried to speak his name, but her i
lips refused to utter any sound. Then I
her arms fell, her head drooped heavily on |
her breast ; she seemed to collapse, to sink ;
together, as one suddenly smitten with old j
age. Some one spoke her name, but the
voice sounded far away ; a supporting arm j
was placed around her just in time to pre- :
vent her falling. And fainting, for the first
time in her life, she sank senseless on Mr.
Carnegie's breast.

" Helen is not well ! I shall take her
home," he said to Lady Dinsmore a half-
hour later. " But do not hurry Miss Wil-
breham on her account. She only needs
rest and sleep."

" It is very late, and we shall all go as ?oon
as that madcap finishes her dance," she re-
plied, glancing at Florence, who was floating
like a zephyr on the arm of Fitzhaven.

The tiny clock on Mrs. Tremr.ine's mantel-
piece struck the hour of three as some one
tapped at her door. It was Constance, who
had just returned from the ball, and could
not retire until she knew if Helen was
better. " If she sleeps I will not awaken
her," she thought, as she knocked again
softly. There was no answer. Tho light
was still burning. She tried the door; it
was not locked. Slie opened it and went
in. Helen sat huddled up in an arm-chair,
still in her baH-dre^, her arms folded on
! bent forward so as to
Cjn^tance went to her i

and put her hand on her shoulder before she
seemed aware that any DUO was in the n,o:n.
Then she- started and" rai-cd a far.- -
gard and worn with suffering -that hrrlricud
cried in astonishment, " O Helen, what is
it ? what has happened ? "

" Enough," she replied, in a hard, cold
voice. " lie despises me, and that is enough
to madden me."

" Who despises you ? "

" Who ? " she repeated bitterly. " There is
but one person in the world whose scorn or
contempt would matter aught to me. O Or-
tensio, why, why did I dcciive you ? 1 love
you, I have always loved you, and yet I told
you a cruel, deliberate falsehood." Sh;
ed up and commenced pacing hurriedly back
and forth, her hands clasped over her fore-
head and the red spot burning on her cheek.

Then, pausing before Constance, she laid
a hot hand on hers and said, ' I am con-
suming with fever. My brain is on fire. I
am mad, and yet I cannot die. O, I
thought my heart would break before this
sacrifice was required of me ! I thought
God would mercifully heal me with dralh.

Constance, to-night I stood alone with
him under the light of the stars, with none
but the stern eye of God upon me ; and I
would have given all the future years of my
life to have laid my head upon his breast for
a moment and heard him say ' darling ' as
he once paid it. Yet coldly and scornfully

1 looked him in the face, and told him I no
longer loved him. But I did it torlii> sake.
I knew how he suffered, and I thought if I
taught him to despise me he would cease to
love me. I tried to cure one wound by in-
flicting another. But I fear by doing it I
have driven myself to madness. J can be a
hypocrite no longer. Let the world know I
am dying of a broken heart. Helen Tre-
maine is no more; in her s(. ad is but a
shadow, a cold, lifeless shadow. I shall
never smile a<jain until I smile in the fare of
death. O Ortensio 1 the memory of your
curse, your scorn, your contempt, will haunt
me day and night. It will follow me beyond
the gate of time, and I shall hear it even
above the roar of the dark river. There is
nothing in Ufa or death for me. Poor body,
poor soul, drift where thou wilt !

" Go, Constance," she said, " leave me
alone; you but intrude upon my sorrow;
you are happy, and there is no sympathy
u joy and suffering: go to ; our bed,
to your sweet dreams of love aiid happi-
ness."

" Poor Helen, dear friend," said Con-
stance, clamping her in her arm.*, " I love
you as a si-tor, we nil love you; try and
this fatal passion, and be hupp;
ho worship you."

"The worship of a thousand hearts is
nothing ; I would rather have one smile from

124

WOVEN OF MAXY THREADS.

him now than the adoration of the whole
world."

Constance glanced back at her as she left
the room ; with her dishevelled hair, crushed
dress, swollen eyes, and pale, despairing
face, she. did indeed seem another person
than the Helen Tremaine who had left her
room a few hours before in the flush and
glory of her beauty.

CHAPTER XLIV.

SHE SMILED IN THE FACE OF DEATH.

T^IIE next morning Mr. Carnegie called to
inquire after Helen's health. Pie found
Constance in the drawing-room, and she
came forward to meet him with a troubled
face.

" How is Helen this morning ? " he in-
quired, anxiously.

" O Mr. Carnegie, I am very unhappy
about her ; she has not left her room, and
she refuses to see any one."

"Perhaps she will see me," he said, ring-
ing the bell. He gave his message to the'
servant, and in a few moments she returned,
saying the Signora would see Mr. Carnegie
if he would wait. He paced the room ner-
vously, glancing from time to time out of the
window, or exchanging a few words with
Constance on ordinary subjects; neither
referred to Helen again. In a half-hour she
entered, scarcely noticing Mr. Carnegie or
Constance. She passed by them, walked
straight to the window, and stood silently
looking out. There was something in her
appearance that startled them both, and
they exchanged uneasy glances as they
looked at her. Dressed in black, her masses
ot golden. hair tied carelessly back with a
black velvet band, from the contrast she
seemed clear and colorless as carved alabas-
ter; around her eyes were heavy shadows,
and her white, firmly closed lips told of the
mental struggle going on within. Constance
left the room, saying softly to Mr. Carnegie
as she went, " I am sure she will listen to
you ; try to comfort her."

Helen still stood looking perseveringly out
of the window. It was not a pleasant scene ;
the rain fell heavily, and Rome, on a rainy
day ; is most depressing. The sharp gusts of
wind drove around the corners of the streets
and the few pedestrians who were exposed
to its force folded their cloaks about them,
and bent their heads as they labored along.
Although her wide-open eyes seemed to be
taking in everything without, actually she
saw nothing ; and if one had asked her if
the dr-.y was dull or pleasant, she could not
I old. Her mind was filled, absorbed,
with that one terrible thought. A thousand

times since she had uttered that falsehood,
since she had perjured her soul, she had re-
gretted it bitterly ; she had even wished her
tongue had been palsied before she had said
the fatal words that had taught him to de-
spise her. She seemed to be unconscious of
Mr. Carnegie's presence, and he spoke twice
to her before she turned sharply upon him
with an angry " Why do you trouble me ?
Cannot you see I am occupied with my own
thoughts ? "

" i do not wish to annoy you, Helen ; you
said you would see me, and I hoped you
might need me in your trouble," he replied,
almost humbly.

" In my trouble ! what trouble ? Ah, I
forgot ; you played the spy last night, and
listened to my conversation. It was an im-
pertinent, cowardly act," she continued, with
fierce anger ; " but don't think I meant what
I said when I told him I did not love him ;
no, for at this moment I love him a thousand
times better than before."

" O Helen, why do you misjudge me?
You know me incapable of acting the spy.
Fitzhaven told me you were there alone,
and I stepped upon the balcony just at the
moment when the Pri:;ce turned away." He
spoke sorrowfully and reproachfully ; but in-
stead of soothing her excitement it seemed
to increase it, for she went on in a hard, al-
most insolent tone, " I do not believe you.
You presume upon the right our engage-
ment gives you to follow me and listen to
me ; but I hope you understand me when I
say the words 1 addressed to the Prince
Conti were not true ; they were utterly
false, as false as all my life has been, as
false as the words I repeated to you when I
said I would be your wife, and that I hoped
in time to come to love you. When I said it
I knew I was lying ; I knew I could never
love you, never. It was a farce, but it is
now played to the end and finished, and the
time has come when I must tell you so. I
know you will despise me ; I do not care
what your opinion of me is ; since he hates
and scorns me, I wish all the world to do
the same. I never loved you, I never could
love you ; and more, I never intended to be
your wife ! "

" O Helen," he interrupted, " why did
you say you would be my wife ? It was un-
necessary ; I would have been your friend
always, and I had determined to trouble you
no more with my entreaties."

" I feared myself, I feared I was not strong
enough to keep the resolve I had made. I
thought my engagement to you would be a
restraint and a protection. But I never be-
lieved the sacrifice would be required of me,"
she said, drawing near him, and fixing her
eyes on him with a strange solemnity. ' I
did not think I should live to be your vrife.
I hoped to die before the year had expired,

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

and then you never would have discovered
my deception. For a long time I have suf-
feivd much here," pressing her hand to
her heart. " A year ago 1 consulted a phy-
sician, and he told me I could not live
long; he deceived me. I thought to have
gone before, but I am still here. Now let
me make a clean breast of it, and then we
will part, you with deep scorn and con-
tempt for me, and I freed from a vow
that has pressed heavily upon me ever since
I made it. It is useless to wait, to hope ; I
shall never be your wife, never. The
thought of it turns my friendship, my liking,
for you into positive hate. O, how expedi-
ency and deception have blighted my life ! It
has all been a falsehood from the beginning,"
she cried in tones of sharp anguish. " I hate
the world, but I hate myself more. And if
you do not leave me, I know I shall hate you
also."

A flush of wounded pride passed over the
face of Mr. Carnegie as he turned away
from her, but he said nevertheless, very gen-
tly, "Helen, it is not necessary to tell me
this so cruelly. I have always told you I
should be to you only what you wished. If
you have no further need of my friendship,
my kindness, I will cease to afflict you with
my presence." He had reached the door,
but he turned to look at her again, as he
thought for the last time. Perhaps some-
thing in his face, or the thought that she
was losing forever her bast friend, caused a
sudden revulsion of feeling. Springing for-
ward, and throwing herself almost prone, and
clasping his feet, she raised her eyes, wild
with an agony of entreaty, crying, " Do not,
do not leave me ! I have no friend but you.
O, have pity on me! I was mad! Forgive
me, I was mail to speak such cruel words ! "

" My poor child," he said, in a voice broken
with emotion, as he raised her from her pros-
trate position, "I implore you to be calm.
" Do not think of me, think only of yourself.
It is unnecessary for me to tell you what I
have repeated so many times. I am your
friend through everything. Do with me as
you will, I am always the same."

" But you understand I can never marry
you," she moaned.

" Yes, yes, I understand it. I do not ask it.
I do not wish it if your feelings oppose
it. We will say no more about it."

He led her to a sofa, gravely and kindly,
as though there was no wound in his heart.

" Rest here," he said, " and calm yourself
by thinking of the peace and repose that
await us all after the agony of life."

He drew a chair near her, and, taking her
trembling hands in his, he held them gently
and firmly ; neither spoke. She lay quiet
with her eyes closed. Gradually her con-
vulsive moans died into silence, the lips
ceased to quiver, and she slept from ex-

haustion. Then, looking at her long and
| tenderly, his eyes dim with tears, Li
heaving with suppressed sobs, In- t.
with his lips one of the golden <
< quietly left the room.

Jt was a glorious morning in Man 1
j dozens of carriages were passing out <if the.
I Porta San Sebasiiano to the meet near the
i tomb of Cecilia Metella. The pn ater | art
of the occupants of the c ere in

their riding-dresses, and near thim cantered
the grooms with their hones. (Jentli n:i-n
: in top-boots and red coats talked <:ayly to
fair girls with sparkling eyes, white
lets, and jewelled whips. Conspicuous
the horses waiting for their fair bifrtJens
j was a superb black English hunter, that
| pranced and pawed, impatient under the
restraining hand of the groom. Fitzhawn
had sent to Scotland for this splendid crea-
ture as a gift for Florence ; but when he saw
the sharp upright ears, small head, and
wild eyes of the beast, he decided she was
unsafe for a lady to ride. This morning,
with a stubborn determination none could
resist, Mrs. Tremaine insisted on mounting
her. Mr. Carnegie implored, Fitzhaven ad-
vised, but she only replied, smiling, ' I am
sure of myself. I promise you lean manage
her." She never looked more lovely,
calmly sat on the prancing, pawing creature,
scarcely controlled by the strong hand of
the groom, surrounded by a dozen or more
of her admirers, who lauded her in the most
extravagant terms for her courage and spirit.
Excitement had lent a flush to her cheek,
that had been paler than marble for many
days ; and only a close observer could have
detected a restlessness in the glance of her
bright eye and a hard, determined expres-
sion around her smiling mouth.

The hounds were away with a whoop and
halloo, and swift as lightning, freed from
the restraining hand of the groom, the black
hunter was off. The Prince Conti, riding
by the side of the American heiress, fLulu <1
by Helen, and all noticed he did not salute
her; but she alone saw the look of cold
scorn and contempt that shot frcm his

Perhaps in all the world there is not more
dangerous hunting-ground than the Roman
campagna, avast iindtilat ing plain ( ;
with almost impenetrable hedges, and
intersected with deep ditches. Innumerable
ruins of tombs, temples, and aqueducts,
partially covered with mounds of earth,
weeds, and tangled vines, render the surface
deceptive and dangerous ; while unknown
and abandoned excavations furni.-h openings
and embankments down which the im-us-
pecting rider is often plunged headlong.

There was plenty of game to be brought
down. The hunters and hounds were soon
scattered in different directions. Mr. Car-
negie followed for some time the rapid pace

126

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

of Helen until she entirely outstripped him
and was lost in the distance.

The Prince Conti, a prey to the most
uncomfortable thoughts, soon left the com-
pany of the heiress, whom he had only joined
to pique Mrs. Tremaine, and, striking his
t-purs into his horse, dashed off, he knew
not whither. He felt no interest in the hunt.
He did not care whether he was in at the
death, or whether an animal was brought
down or not. So on he rode over miles of
country, recklessly and rapidly, objectless
and aimless.

It was about noonday when he found him-
self entirely separated from the others. Not
a trace of horse or rider, hound or fox. He
listened, not the faintest whoop or halloo
sounded on his ear. All was silent a?> the
ruined tomb near which he stopped. He
must have ridden very far, for the dome of
St. Peters made but a faint blot on the blue
sky, and the tomb of Cecilia Metella was
miles and miles behind.

Perhaps the tranquillity of the scene, the
beauty of nature, the solitude and loneliness,
touched the not entirely ignoble heart of
the man, for his face grew soft and sad as he
gazed into the distance, and tears, real tears,
dimmed his eyes as he said, " Why did she
undeceive me ? Why did she not leave me
always to believe her the angel I thought
her to be ? There is nothing so cruel as to
be rudely awakened from an illusion. She
has taught me to doubt all humanity."

Suddenly on a rising ground before him
appsared a rider coming swiftly and surely
in his direction. Striking the spurs into his
horse, ha sprang forward saying, " My God !
it is a woman, and her horse is unmanagable.
Shs has no control over him, and he is
making straight for the excavations. Per-
haps I can intercept her and avert a ter-
rible calamity."

With his eyes fixed on the advancing rid-
er, he dashed toward her. A moment after
he grew livid as death, and a cry burst from
his lips: " Madre di Dio, it is she; I will
save her, or die with her."

Yes, it was she, Helen Tremaine. A calm
white face, back from which streamed rays
of golden hair, eyes lit up with a sort of rap-
turous enthusiasm, lips which smiled the di-
vinest smile he had ever seen, small hands
grasping tightly the bridle, a slight upright
figure firmly seated, a flying horse with eyes
of fire and distended nostrils, shot by him
straight and swift as an arrow from a bow.
He ma<!e one desperate effort to throw him-
self before the animal, to grasp the bridle,
but it was ineffectual. He saw her pass
straight on to certain destruction. But as
the passed she smiled a loving, tender smile.
Although she was face to face with death,
sho had smiled on him again, and that was
enough. With a terrible cry of grief he

turned and flew after her. He remembered
calling out to her in passionate tones , of
warning her of the danger ; of imploring her
to save herself ; and that even while he spoke
both horse and rider had disappeared down
the embankment into the excavation be-
low.

When he reached her she was leaning
against a broken column, her hand pressed
to her heart, gasping as one in the last strug-
gle.

On her face were the unmistakable signs
of death, yet around her sweet lips still lin-
gered the divine smile.

" O my darling ! " he cried, kneeling be-
side her, and taking her head on his breast,
" tell me, where are you hurt ? ''

" I am not hurt," she gasped, " I am
healed. Cannot you see I am healed ? "

Then, nestling closer to him, and laying
her hand against his cheek with a caressing
touch, she said, " You know now, darling,
do you not ? that when I said I loved you
no more it was an untruth. I loved you then
as I always loved you, as I love you now. I
said those words for your sake, because I
thought if you despised me you would cease
to suffer ; but it broke my heart, Ortensio."

He could not reply because of his sobs.

Her little soft hand strayed over his face,
and she murmured, " I am happy, so happy !
You will think of me sometimes, darling ? "
Turning her face to his breast, with a sud-
den strength she clasped her hands around
his neck. He held her thus close to his
heart, and with mingled sobs and prayers
implcred her forgiveness.

How long she lay in that last embrace he
never knew. When he looked into her face
the blue eyes were still open, the sweet lips
still smiled, but the spirit had passed away
forever.

Hours after, one of the huntsmen, who had
ridden far from the others, peered curiously
down this abandoned excavation, and saw
there, on a green mound by a broken col-
umn, the Prince Conti bending in a sort of
stupor over the inanimate form, the dead
face, of lovely Helen Tremaine.

CHAPTER XLV.

HELMSFORD HALL.

TWO years ago, I, the writer of this little
history woven of so many threads, re-
turned to England after an absence of some
years. Among the letters awaiting my ar-
rival was one from Lady Dinsmore, inviting
me to Helmsford, to celebrate the anniver-
sary of the marriage of her daughter to the
Duke of Fitzhaven. This invitation I glad-
ly accepted, as for a long time I had heard

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

127

little of the characters that had interested
me so much some years before.

It was near the close of a delightful June
day that I arrived at the Helmslbrd station.
I had scarcely touched the platform when I
was clasped in the warm embrace of (iuido.
now the perfect type of a handsome English
country gentleman.

" Come," he said, " the servants will at-
tend to your luggage, my mother and Con-
stant, aiv impatient to see you." He led
me to a handsome trap, I seated myself, the
groom sprang up behind, and Guido, tak-
ing the reins, drove swiftly toward Helins-
ford.

I was interested, as well as pleased, to
notice the. respect and evident affection
with which the tenantry greeted this young
man, as we. passed over the estate lying
between the station and the Hall. Although
he was not a Vandeleur, he seemed to have
found a warm place in their hearts.

Twenty years before, I had visited IL.-hns-
ford with poor Richard Vandeleur, then
fre*h from college, with all a boy's ardent
hopes for the future. I had loved him well,
and tears dimmed my eyes as I thought of
him, with all those hopes unfulfilled, lying
in his silent grave, and a stranger occupying
his place.

As we drove up the avenue I felt a little
saddened by these th visits, but when I saw
the charming group that awaited me on the
terrace, old memories vanished, and I was
prepared to enjoy the present.

There w.is Lady Dinsmore looking scarce-
ly a day older than she did eight years
before, when she toll me with tears of joy
that she ha I discovered her son, and the
singular history of the deception that had
been practised upon her. By her side stood
Constance, a little more matronly, but love-
lier, if possible, than in her girlhood. Near
them Fitzhaven and Florence, a merry, come-
ly couple, and a little behind, arranged, as
Florence said, like the tableau of a play,
stool Ma lame Lan lei, and by her side a
pale mournful woman, dressed in wi low's
weeds, with the most glorious eyes I had
ever seen, lidding by the hand a lovely boy
of three years. The woman was Mona, and
the little boy was (inid /s son, whom they
brought forward an I pre~entel as Richard
Vandeleur. Quid > caught him up in his
arms with the fondest look I have ever seen
in a father's fice. " Ts he not a fine boy ?
lie is Vandeleur of Ilelmsford, and I think
he will be a worthy representative of the
family. All the people idolize him, they
always call him Vandeleur. In fact, I think
they forget he has any other name."

After dinner, when we all sat on the ter-
race, Guido, Fitzhaven, and myself smoking
our fine Havanas, the conversation naturally
turned to the old days.

'' Tell me first," I said, " what has become
of Mr. Carin

' We- invited him here for a month," re-
plied Lady Dinsmore, "but he did not
accept. He has lived almost the !!;
recluse at Carnegie Hall, ever MHCC the
death of dear Helen. Did you know that
none of the ph\M< ian-. believed her death
to be caused by her fall? There was ]:
of an injury either internal or external."

"Indeed," 1 replied, " 1 am astonished. I
thought she was killed almost in-tantly bv
being thrown from her ho

"No; the doctors have decided that slie
died of heart-di:-easc, from which she had
suffered for some time, unknown to any of
her friends. Of course, the iear and excite-
ment of the moment caused the sudden and
fatal result."

' We have all mourned deeply for her,"
said Constance. " In spite of her wayward-
ness, she was very sweet and noble, and I
loved her as a sister."

" You saw the monument Mr. Carnegie
hr.s erected to her memory at Came^ie
Hall, did you not, Fitz ? " inquired Florence
of her husband.

" Yes. dear, and there is not a more
beautiful thing in all Scotland. It was made
in Italy at an immense cost, they say, the
half of his fortune. With the consent of her
mother she was buried at Carnegie, and he
spends his lime, poor heart-broken man!
watching over the remains of her he wor-
shipped. It is said he has a room n
ever enters filled with her portraits that he
has painted from memory. lie never leaves
Carnegie Hall. All he loves is there. He
told me nothing would induce him to vi.-it
Rome. He set-ins to have a horror of it and
all connected with it. Madame de Marc
and Helen's mother and sisters spend some
part of every year with him. He is much
attached to her family, and has dowered two
of her sisters handsomely, and man led them
to young Scotch m hies. The fn>t daughter
of the eldest is (ailed Helen, and Mie will
be his heiress, without doubt."

" And the Prince Conti, he mourned
deeply for her, did he not ? "

"O yes, indeed he did." replied Lady
Dinsmore. " For a long' time after her death
he remained in a sort of Mupor : hi- friends
feared for his reason. However, he travelled
two or three years, and when he returned
home he was more cheerful, although he has
never been quite the same. Two years ago
we spent the winter in Rome, and 1
among the first to call upon us. He was
dressed in deep mourning, which lie says he
shall always wear, and scarcely spoke on
any other subject beside his sonow lor lei-
loss, lie told me that shortly sifter her
death one of his family left him a sm.dl
fortune, by which means he hud regained

128

WOVEN OF MANY THREADS.

two of his palaces and the most of his family
jewels ; but he added, with the dreariest
sigh 1 ever heard, ' It came too late to
make me happy ; I do not value it, she can-
not share it with me.' 1 thought he would
neves marry, but some time ago I heard he
was engaged to a wealthy Italian countess,
a stern, dark woman, some years older than
himself, and an exact contrast to our Helen."

"I have something to tell you," said
Guido, laying his hand on my shoulder.
" Last summer we had the honor of enter-
taining my dear old friend, the Cardinal.
He came with his chaplain and servants,
and stayed some time. He seemed delighted
with everything, but I think he was a little
disappointed because I had not converted
all the family to the Catholic religion. He
consoled himself, however, by thanking the
Madonna that I had not turned Protestant
through the powerful influence of these
charming creatures. We tried to entertain
him in the most sumptuous manner possible.
It was a great pleasure to me to be able to
return even to some small extent his kind-
ness of other days."

" But we were all nearly driven to insanity
during his stay," said Florence, laughing
heartily at the recollection. '' Our good
country people, not being accustomed to the
dress of a Roman dignitary, surrounded the
carriage of the poor old Cardinal, and stared
at him in such a way that we almost died
of mortification, and one day he said mass
in the little chapel Guido built on the estate
for the Irish laborers, and they all came
from far and near, as though it were a great
spectacle."

" I think," said Constance, " he regretted
more than anything that our baby was to be
brought up a Protestant. Dear old gentle-
man, I am very fond of him, but I cannot
change rny religion to please him. Although
I am perfectly contented that Guido is a
Catholic, because he has always been one,
yet neither of us wishes our baby to be. He
is the representative of an English Protes-
tant family, and so must follow the religion
of his forefathers."

" We will go to-morrow and see the new
school-house my precious mother has built
for the poor, and all the other improvements
she has made. They worship her as though
she ware an angel," said Guido, looking
fondly at Lady Dinsmore.

" I think my people love me," she said,
" but they love Guido and Constance equally
well. And Mona and our baby are adored
because they bear the name of Vandeleur.
We live the most of our time here. I prefer

Helmsford to Dinsmore Castle, Constance
is at home in sight of the rectory, and Guido
is always happy where we are. Yet we
spend most of our winters in Rome, as we
cannot be 'entirely separated from Si?ter
Agatha, and Mona wishes to be with her
mother some of the time, but she will not
be parted from our boy for a day. She fan-
cies he resembles her dead husband. So we
arrange it to please all ; we spend four
months in Rome, two at Dinsmore Castle,
and the other six here. We are such a
happy, contented family now, I can scarcely
realize we have all passed through so many
vicissitudes and sorrows."

" What was it I heard the other day in
London of a talented singer who gave a
concert in Covent Garden to raise funds for
a foundling hospital ? " and I glanced at
Guido as I spoke. " Also of a new opera
that has met with such a success ? All the
world is going crazy over it, and the com-
poser, they say, enjoys a greater reputation
than any celebrity of the day."

"If there is any merit in anything I do,
give Constance the credit," said Guido, with
his old sweet smile, as he encircled his wife
with his arm, and drew her very near to
him, while he pressed his mother's hand
tenderly to his lips. " I owe all my success,
all my happiness, to these two angels."

The little Richard was brought around
for his good-night kiss, and was sent away
in the arms of his nurse, followed by Mona.
One by one we fell into silence and happy
musing, while we watched the round white
moon rise behind the row of tall lindens,
touching with silver the spire of the old
church, and flooding with soft light the park,
garden, and terraces of Helmsford.

Travellers who have visited Rome, do you
remember in a small cabinet of an old

palace on the Via a picture covered

with a blue silk curtain, which the custodian
sometimes draws aside at the request of a
visitor, and reveals the smiling face of a
lovely woman ; the slight, elegant form robed
in pale blue satin, pearls on her arms and
bosom, waves of golden blonde hair, and
limpid blue eyes ?

" Is she not lovely ? " inquires the custo-
dian. " It is the portrait of a young Eng-
lish lady who was killed some years ago at
the hunt."

Often as the last rays of sunset flood the
little cabinet, a grave, handsome man, clad
in black, enters, draws back the curtain
reverently, and gazes with tear-dimmed
eyes long and tenderly on the face of Helen
Tremaine.

Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, and Co.

RHB

IT
I