Grannie's taper fingers--bent a little with the suppressed gout that seems natural to the eighth decade--trembled with excitement, as she tore off the thin paper and discovered a red morocco jewel-case, heart-shaped. While Lady Felicia was opening the case--a rather difficult matter, as the metal spring was strong and her fingers were weak--Vera picked up an open letter that had fallen out of the parcel. "From Signor Provana," she said, and she read the brief note aloud, without waiting for Grannie's permission. "DEAR LADY FELICIA,--I hope you will let your granddaughter wear this trinket in memory of my daughter. It was Giulia's own choice of a souvenir for a friend she loved. A friendship of two months may seem short to you and me; but it was long in that brief life. "Yours faithfully, "PROVANA." The lid was open and the red light of diamonds flashed in the shaft of sunshine from the narrow slit in the Venetian shutters. "You are a lucky girl, Vera," said Grannie approvingly, as she turned the heart-shaped locket about in the slanting sun-rays, unconsciously producing Newton's prism. "I know something about diamonds. That centre stone is splendid. Hunt and Roskell would not sell a diamond heart as good as this under three hundred pounds." Vera's only comment was to burst out crying. "For a commercial magnate, Signor Provana is a superior person," said Lady Felicia. "I hope we may see more of him. If he had given me time, I should have asked him to call upon me in London." "Oh, Grannie, you could not! It would have been dreadful to talk about visiting to a man in such deep grief." "I am not likely to do anything unseemly," Grannie replied with her accustomed dignity. "I ought to have asked the man to call." * * * * * Everybody was leaving the South, and San Marco had the dejected air that the loveliest place will assume when people are going away. For Vera San Marco seemed dead after the death of her friend; and, while she grieved incessantly for Giulia, she was surprised to find how much she missed Giulia's father. It seemed to her that some powerful sustaining presence had been taken out of her life. His strength had made her feel strong. He had been with them always, in those long Spring days that were warm and vivid as an English July. He had talked very little; but he had been interested in his daughter's talk, and even in Vera's. He had come to their assistance sometimes in their discussions, with grave philosophy or hard facts. He seemed to possess universal knowledge; but he was not romantic or poetical. He smiled at Giulia's flights of fancy, those voyages in cloud-land that charmed Vera. He was always interested, always sympathetic; and the grave, beautiful voice and the calm, slow smile were not to be forgotten by Vera, now that he had gone out of her life.