Ah, how happy the young bride was in those golden honeymoon days when the blue of the sky was mirrored in the blue of the sea by day, and by night the stars. Although it was February the weather was balmy as May. Nature seemed to smile on Thea. People said afterward that it was a charming voyage, there were so many pleasant people on board, and such a fair young bride, whose handsome husband, the celebrated author, seemed to worship her. Nothing unpleasant occurred during the whole week. The young people were sociable, the elders complaisant. They enlivened the trip by amateur theatricals and Mrs. Jarley’s wax-works. On Sunday they had a sermon in the cabin from an eminent preacher who was bound for the Holy Land, and every day the kindly friendship between the De Veres and Lord Stuart grew more genial. He was determined that they should like him--determined to drive away the bitter memories of the past by more agreeable impressions, and he knew that it was all for the sake of the charming girl in whose voice and smile lurked such a spell of subtle fascination. “Mrs. de Vere, I want you to know my sister, Lady Moreland,” he said to her on the last day of the voyage. “I think you will like her very much. She is a widow, and she lives with me at my home in Devonshire. When the season in London begins she comes up and occupies my town house and entertains for me.” “So you have no wife?” Thea said, almost pityingly. “No; and Edith has no husband. She has been a widow eighteen years.” “Has she any children?” “None. We have only each other. We are the last of our family, and, poor girl! she is often lonely, for I am somewhat of a wanderer, and I have been away from her now six months. I wish she would marry again.” “Do you think she will?” Thea asked him. “No,” he answered, and a faint sigh escaped him. “Her heart is buried in her husband’s grave.” Norman came up at that moment, and Lord Stuart said: “I have been telling Mrs. de Vere about my sister, trying to awaken such an interest in my relative that she will accept an invitation to visit her in May, when she comes up to our London house for the season.” Norman smiled, and glanced at Thea, whose blue eyes were full of tender interest. “She is a widow, and her heart is buried in her husband’s grave. Is it not sad?” she said, sweetly. “You would think so if you knew her,” said Lord Stuart. “She is not forty yet, though she has been a widow eighteen years, and she is lovely still. It is her own fault that she has never married a second time, for she has had many suitors. But she is romantic enough to suit even you, Mrs. de Vere, and I want you to promise me you will visit us in London.” “I shall be glad,” she answered. CHAPTER L. It was in Italy, two months later, that a letter came to the happy bride, reminding her of her promise to go to Lord Stuart’s London house in May.