“Yes, poor little Sophy,” said Diana, “she deserved some pretty young man like herself, who would have run about with her, and understood all her little vanities. I hope she will never be sorry for herself: but it will not be a very cheerful life.” “I think of him,” the curate said, in a low voice. Diana did not answer for a time. Something came into her throat and stopped her. Then she went on after a pause, “Sophy will be more of a woman than you think. She would have made you a good little wife, Mr. Snodgrass.” “Me!” He made a step away from her in the shock of surprise and indignation. He was not vain, he thought; but he who cherished so lofty, so noble a love--he to have Sophy suggested to him, or such as she! This, from Diana, went to poor Snodgrass’s heart. “Yes,” she said, looking at him with a smile in her clear eyes. “You are angry, but it is true. A girl like Sophy, young and fresh and sweet, who would think there was no one in the world like you, and would be good to your poor people, would make you more happy than anything else--though perhaps you do not think so now.” Poor curate! this sudden dash of cold water upon him, in the very midst of the subdued exhilaration with which he found himself by Diana’s side, talking to her more freely than he had ever ventured to talk before, was very hard to bear. He thought, if it was possible for Diana to be cruel, that she was cruel now. That she could smile even, and jest--for it must be intended for a jest--at such a moment, when he, for his part, had come ready, as it were, to follow with her the funeral of poor Pandolfini! Was it not, if one might dare to permit such a thought, heartless of Diana? But she gave him no time to think. She had her packing to attend to, and all the last arrangements to make for leaving Pisa next day. Diana had resisted various proposals to “join a party” of tourists going northward. She was starting straight for home, from which she declared she had been only too long away. The Snodgrasses and Mrs. Norton were to dine with her in the evening--to drink the health of the newly married, and conclude this little episode of their life--and she had no more leisure now. She came in lightly from among the oleanders and aloes, in the soft grey dress which she had put on in such haste, as her excuse for not showing herself. It was too simple a garment--too like her governess days to suit Diana--and she had some reason of her own, perhaps, for putting it on; not any reason, one would think, however, for sad thoughts. She came in with a light in her eyes which had been somewhat veiled of late. “Now I must be busy,” she said, smiling upon her visitor as she dismissed him. The last week or two of warm Italian weather, and of these distracting melancholy contemplations, had stopped many things, or retarded them. Life itself had grown languid in sympathy: but now that was all over; the deed was done for which heaven and earth had seemed to be waiting, and there