They had been in Rome almost a month; had received calls from many distinguished countrymen and countrywomen; and were beginning to feel quite at home, when one morning Gertrude accompanied her brother to the studio of an American artist, who had some pictures on exhibition before they were sent to New York. There was quite a crowd in the room, and Gertrude, leaning on the arm of her brother lingered outside the door quietly awaiting her turn, when she was startled by the sound of a familiar voice. She turned quickly, but not before Edward who had also heard it, had stepped where he could intercept her view. He took her hand, drew it into his arm and as at this moment several persons left the studio, pressed his way inside the door. Every particle of color had vanished from her face, and he could feel her form tremble as she leaned heavily against him for support. "I can't stay," she urged, "Let me go." A lady near thought her fainting, and offered her vinaigrette, which was politely accepted by Edward. After the most cursory examination of the famous pictures, they gladly left; and hailing a carriage at the door, rode swiftly home. "It was Paul's voice. I am sure of it," murmured the poor wife. "Paul Dudley, my husband. I must see him." "You forget," urged her brother, "that he has forfeited that holy tie. I caught a glimpse of his face; and I assure you, I should never have recognized it as belonging to one, once so familiar to me." She was weeping bitterly, while he stood by, wondering what he could say to comfort her. "Oh, I wish my boy were here!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands convulsively. "Our boy. I would send him to his father. You couldn't deny him a sight of his own child." "Gertrude, you are beside yourself. You must be aware that Paul, the father, has a right to his son;—that he can take him from you at any moment. He may use this power; or by it he may extort from you every cent of your fortune." She shuddered visibly; and at length exclaimed: "Oh, Edward, be merciful! You separated us. I feel this moment that I could forgive every thing if he will only take me again. Perhaps God would help me win him back to virtue." Mr. Wallingford was greatly shocked at her words. He turned from her with such a distressed countenance that her fears for him were at once aroused. "Forgive me," she plead, grasping his hand. "I am indeed ungrateful when I say such words to you. Forgive me; and I will promise to be governed by your wishes. Only think of Marion; and ask yourself whether you could ever turn from her." "Paul forsook you," he murmured, seating himself on a couch and putting his hand to his head. "Let us talk of this no more to-day. We are unfit; at least I am to decide what is best. I will take the earliest opportunity to inquire what character he bears in the city. After all we must be governed by that." CHAPTER XVII. THE WINTER IN ROME.