"He is disappointed in love, or jealous," the man thought as they threaded the inner ways of the city, now by a lighted piazza, now under shadowing bridges, or along the gloomy, silent walls of palaces that shut them in. "Where shall I go now?" he ventured to ask, when they had gone the whole length of the city. "We are in the Cannareggio." The passenger raised himself. He had sat all the time with his head bowed down. "Let her drop down the canal," he said, his voice grown gentler. "Keep well to the left." They went out into the canal and downward. Passing under the Rialto, there rose a deep sigh from the gondola, and the echoing arch whispered back a sigh. The passenger was alert now, looking at all the palaces at the left, as though he had never seen them before. As they passed Palazzo Pesaro a gondola touched its steps, and a lady and gentleman got out and walked up to the portone. The moonlight sparkled on, the uniform of one and on the gilded fan of the other. They had been out together, and alone, drawing sweetness from the same air where he had breathed in bitterness. "Well, it is fitting," he sighed. "Her head was made to wear a coronet. God bless her!--and him." He looked at them standing in the archway of the palace saying good-night till distance hid them from him. He was in front of his cousin's hotel, and, looking up, he saw her still sitting in the balcony where he had left her. Late as it was, he landed and went up to her again. She recognized him when he stepped out of the gondola, and was not too much surprised when he appeared. He seated himself beside her, and looked out over the water without saying a word. "Are you not well?" she asked at length, timidly. He started. "Why do you ask?" "You look pale," she answered. For a moment he did not speak. Then he said, "I have had a disappointment, Edith." She leaned toward him with a sigh and a hand half extended, compassion in all her attitude. He took the hand, and rose. "Let me tell you all, dear," he said. "I need comfort. Come and let me tell you,--if it will not be a bore," She went at once, pain and delight struggling together in her heart. He led her to the sofa, and sank down to the cushion at her feet, bowing his head to her knees. And there he poured out his whole story, sparing her nothing. Perhaps an instinct of justice and mercy ran through his passion. Perhaps, guessing in the soft, tremulous, soothing hands that touched his hair and forehead the love that he had believed to be dead, and with an unconscious feeling that she was to be the consoler and companion of his future life, he felt also that all the pain she was to suffer for this love of his must be gone through with now. He could not understand that her only pain was for him, and that for herself she was blest. For she had his confidence, and she could console him.