Then there was a sound of some one walking down the river-bank, the rustle of a silken dress, the half-song, half-murmur of a laughing voice. He saw a shadow fall between himself and the sunshine. Oh, Heaven! could it be she? He drew aside the sheltering branches and looked out. There, on the bank below him, sat a young girl. At first he could only distinguish the rich dress of violet silk and black lace; then, when the mist cleared before his eyes, and he saw a profusion of golden hair shining like the sun, then he went toward her. Oh, blessed sky above! Oh, shining sun! Oh, flowing river! Oh, great and merciful Heaven! was it she? Nearer, and more like the shadow of a coming fate, he crept. Still she never moved. She sang of love that was never to die. Nearer and nearer he could see the white, arched neck, whose graceful turn he would have recognized anywhere. Nearer still, and he laid his hand on her shoulder. "Doris," he said. She turned quickly round. It was she. He will never forget the ghastly pallor that came over her face. She started up with a dreadful cry. "Earle! Earle! have you come to kill me?" It was some moments before he could reply. Earth and sky seemed to meet; the ripple of the river was as a roar of water in his ears. His first impulse had been a fierce one. He, worn, haggard, heartbroken; she, brighter, fairer than ever, singing on the banks of the sunny Arno. Then he looked steadily at her. "No," he said slowly; "I have not come to kill you; I do not wish to kill you. Death could not deal out such torture as your hands have dealt out to me." "Poor Earle," she said pityingly; but the pity was more than he could bear. "I am sent here," he continued, "by those who have a right to send. I do not need pity." But she looked into his changed face. "Poor Earle," she repeated; and the tone of her voice was so kind that for one moment he shuddered with dread. "I must speak to you, Doris. I have been long in finding you----" "Earle," she interrupted, "what has brought you here? I am not surprised. I have always felt that, sooner or later, I should see you. What has brought you here?" "I have something to tell you," he replied. "I would have traveled the wide world over, but I would never have returned without seeing you." "But why, of all other places, did you think of Florence?" she asked. Then it seemed to him that she was simply trying to gain time, and to avoid what he had to say. "Doris, I have come expressly to talk to you. Why I chose Florence matters but little; nothing matters between us except what I have to say." "Oh, Earle," she cried, "I was so tired of Brackenside. I could not stay." "Never mind Brackenside. We will not discuss it now. Will you sit down here, Doris, while I tell you my message?"