"God bless you, you shall be like my own child, Reine. And it may not be for long," Mrs. Odell sighs. "I am afraid--afraid, dear, that I shall never see my native land again." "We will hope for the best," the girl answers, gently, "and if--if it should be as you fear, you will not forget that Heaven is as near to Italy as to our native land." Heaven! to these two who have lost the treasure of life, that word is sweet and potent. Drawn nearer together by the waves of sorrow that have gone over their heads, they cling together in the falling twilight, and talk softly of "A land whose light is never dimmed with shade, Whose fields are ever vernal; Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, But blooms for aye eternal." * * * * * The soft Italian winter comes and goes. To Reine's young and inexperienced eyes, as she ministers lovingly to her dying friend, it seems as if a change for the better is taking place. But Doctor Franks shakes his head. "Impossible," he tells her, sadly. "It is a marvel she has lasted so long. It almost seems as if your love and tenderness have held her fluttering spirit back from the other world. The end is not far now." But the spring days pass with such gentle touches on the wasting frame that the spirit lingers still. At last, in the golden sunset of a golden June, Mrs. Odell's summons comes, gently, as if angels had borne it down the golden stairway of the sky, closing her tired eyelids on the fair land of Italy, with her thin hand nestled in Reine's warm clasp, she opens them again on the "stiller, fairer world of the dead." CHAPTER XXVI. Standing alone and sadly by the marble cross that marks Mrs. Odell's quiet grave, Reine's thoughts turn homeward. The longing for native land inherent in humanity begins to stir in her heart. "'Tis hame, hame, hame, hame I fain would be, Hame, hame, hame, in my ain countree." The slim, dark figure standing quietly with the pale face turned seaward, has a pathetic grace and beauty all its own. So thinks one who approaches so quietly along the grass-grown paths of "the city of the dead," that she starts with a frightened little cry when he stands before her. "Oh! Dr. Franks, how you startled me," she says, with one slim, white hand pressed against her heart to still its rapid beating. "Did I? Pardon me," he answers, with an irrepressible glance of admiration. "I forgot you might be nervous in this quiet, lonely spot. Do I intrude upon you?" "The place is free to all," she answers, somewhat confusedly. "That would be no excuse for me if you did not desire my company," he answers, quickly and humbly, then in a lower tone: "Oh! Mrs. Charteris, you must pardon me that I have followed you here! I had something to say to you. Can you not guess?" "Do not say it, please. I would rather not hear," she answers, with weary indifference in face and voice. His handsome, eager face grows blank and dismayed.