“That is all past now, Britomarte—forever past. You shall bear no burden, suffer no sorrow that I can intercept and take from you.” “I know it, Justin. I know it. God make me worthy of you, and grateful for your love.” “Hush, hush, my dearest. No more of that. Go on with your domestic history. What came next?” “What came next? Ah, Justin, the money I sent poor Mona only helped to bury her children. They all died. Meanwhile, she found a friend in the widow of the elder Bercelloni. This poor woman had been the second wife of the father, and was therefore only the step-mother of the son. She was entirely dependent on her own exertions for a livelihood, for her selfish step-son would do nothing for her. But the Signora kept poor Mona from starving, and after a while procured her an engagement at the same opera house where she herself was employed as chorus singer. But I weary you with these petty family details.” “No, no, not in the least. All that in the slightest degree concerns you interests me. Go on, pray.” “I heard but little of my sister for the next twelve months. Meanwhile—But how is it that secrets transpire, Justin—do you know? And above all, how is it that family secrets always come out in an exaggerated form and distorted shape? Can any one tell?” “Not _I_, at all events,” said Justin, smiling. “My sister’s story transpired, but in a monstrous form. There was sin and folly, it was whispered, but the folly and the sin were hers, it was said. Suspicion fell even on me, of I know not what fault. Ah, you know the poisonous malaria of slander that hung like a pestilential cloud over me.” “I know! I know! But it has cleared away, my dear—cleared away, and left your sky all bright and sunny.” “For a year or more, being my last year at school, I lived in this deadly atmosphere. Then came the school examination. You remember all that happened there?” “I remember one thing that happened there distinctly. I met you. And for the first time, and for the whole of my life, I loved. But proceed, my dearest.” “Do you remember while we were on the boat, waiting for her to get up her steam, that a negro boy came running down from the schoolhouse, and jumped aboard and handed me a letter?” “That letter! Yes, and I remember your excessive agitation, your retirement to your cabin, your isolation all that day and night, and the awful sorrow on your brow next morning. I remember all, Britomarte.” “That letter was from the Signora Adriana di Bercelloni. It announced to me the news of my sister’s awful death. She was found one morning dead in her bed, with her throat cut from ear to ear, and lying in a pool of her own blood!” “Great Heavens, Britomarte!” Britomarte covered her face with her hands, and remained silent for a few moments. Then she looked up and said: