Waring walked about the _salone_. He opened the glass door and stepped out into the loggia, into the tranquil shining of the moon, which lit up all the blues of the sea, and kindled little silver lamps all over the quivering palms. How quiet it was! and yet that tranquil nature lying unmoved, taking whatever came of good or evil, did harm in a far more colossal way than any man could do. The sea, then looking so mild, would suddenly rise up and bring havoc and destruction worse than an army; yet next day smile again, and throw its spray into the faces of the children, and lie like a harmless thing under the light. But a man could not do this. A man had to give an account of all that he had done, whether it was good or whether it was evil,--if not to God--which on the whole was the easiest, for God knew all about it, how little harm had been intended, how little anything had been intended, how one mistake involved another,--if not to God--why, to some one harder to face; perhaps to one’s little girl. He came back from the loggia and the moonlight and nature, which, all of them, were so indifferent to what was happening to him, with a feeling that the imperfect human lamp which so easily got out of gear--as easily as a man--was a more appropriate light for his disturbed soul; and met Frances with her brown eyes waiting for him at the door. CHAPTER VIII. “It is not because of this only, papa--I wanted before to speak to you. I was waiting in the loggia for you, when Constance came.” “What did you want, Frances? Oh, I quite acknowledge that you have a right to inquire. I hoped, perhaps, I might be spared to-night; I am rather exhausted--to-night.” Frances dropped the hand which she had laid upon his arm. “It shall be exactly as you please, papa. I seem to know a great deal--oh, a great deal more than I knew at dinner. I don’t think I am the same person; and I thought it might save us all trouble if you would tell me--as much as you think I ought to know.” She had sat down in her usual place, in her careful little modest pose, a little stiff, a little prim--the training of Mariuccia. After Constance, there was something in the attitude of Frances which made her father smile, though he was in no mood for smiling; and it was clear that he could not, that he ought not to escape. He would not sit down, however, and meet her eye. He stood by the table for a few minutes, with his eyes upon the books, turning them over, as if he were looking for something. At last he said, but without looking up, “There is nothing very dreadful to tell; no guilty secret, though you may suppose so. Your mother and I----” “Then I have really a mother, and she is living?” the girl cried. He looked at her for a moment. “I forgot that for a girl of your age that means a great deal--I hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps if you knew---- Yes; you have got a mother, and she is living. I suppose that seems a very wonderful piece of news?”