“Well, well,” she said, amused; “they tell me I have altered; yet—why, don’t you remember Ninetta?” “Ninetta! Do you remember when last we met?” I asked earnestly. “Yes,” she murmured; “but do not speak of it. Such memories are painful.” “If to you, none the less to me, Ninetta,” I replied, looking into her sad, wan face. Her lips quivered, and tears stole down her cheeks. During a whole hour it was nothing but expressions of surprise and vague regret. To the depth of our beings we felt the voice of these recollections. We were speaking of them, when suddenly she withdrew her hand, and a red flush mounted to her forehead. “But you soon forgot me when you went away,” she said reproachfully. “And I have never ceased to think of you. It was strange, playing a game of dominoes for your life, wasn’t it?” I rose and gazed at her. She was seated, her eyes riveted on the dying embers of the fire, her cheek resting upon her hand, appearing to have forgotten my presence. There was nothing awkward in the long silence that followed. We both felt too deeply for idle words. As we contemplated our past, the wind whistled without, the thunder pealed, and the rain fell furiously. “Ah!” she exclaimed at last, looking up at me seriously, “I am foolish to speak so, now that I am married.” “Married!” I gasped in astonishment, at the same time noticing the ring upon her finger. “I thought this cottage was your father’s—that you kept house for him.” There was a brief silence. Then she spoke. Her voice made me tremble, careless ingrate that I was. She uttered the words without moving, as though giving utterance to the thought that possessed her. For an hour I remained talking to her, then went forth again into the darkness. The morning was chill and dull as I again walked along the beach-road until I came to the door of the cottage. I had spent a restless night; her misery tortured me, and despite her entreaty, I was now on my way to proffer assistance. With trepidation I approached the door of the humble abode, and knocked. No one stirred. Everything seemed strangely silent. A moment later I noticed the door was unlatched. Pushing it open, I entered, at the same time uttering her name. As I stepped into the neat, well-kept room I at first saw nothing, but on glancing round the opposite side of the table my eyes encountered a sight that thrilled me with horror. Stretched on the floor lay Ninetta, partially dressed, the pale morning light falling across her calm, upturned features. Falling on my knees, I touched her face with my hand. It was cold as marble. She was dead! In her breast a knife was buried up to the hilt, and from the cruel wound the blood had oozed, forming a dark pool beside her.