she should, later, meet a man whom she could love, and who should wish to marry her, I will pay her every year half of my income; and I will at once make a will, leaving my entire property to her at my death. I am mistress of all that I have, and as my family are well off, they need not be injured by my taking this course. Fulvia need never fear care or want if you will agree to this arrangement; and if she will give me continually the affection she feels for me at present, and is restored to the happiness which is her right at her age, I shall be more than repaid. I shall be rich. This is what I offer you. I am aware that it does not much improve your position, except through your daughter’s happiness; but as I imagine that to be your main object in life, I shall know by your acceptance or refusal of my proposal whether what you say about this is true, or simply an excuse to get what you want for yourself, not for her.’ ‘Signora!’ cried Fulvia, ‘signora! Oh, if I might die for you at this moment! Mamma! mother! speak--let me be happy again!’ Her voice broke into a wail, as she turned from Minna and looked at her mother. Signora Dietrich had not for a moment lost her presence of mind. She could hit hard, and she could also take hard knocks, unperturbed. She looked from one to the other of them, calmly, gravely, unwaveringly. Her voice, when she spoke, was sweet and strong; she threw over her features an expression of resignation, half sad, half bitter. ‘I see,’ said she, ‘that you are, like most Englishwomen, straightforward, if somewhat brutal in your way of displaying even your kind feelings. Your remarks about my future son-in-law are unwarrantable and quite without foundation. Your offer, however, shows you to be sincere and well-meaning. You have, I believe, never been a mother, so you cannot be expected to understand what one who is a mother feels, on being asked to discard her own careful plans for her child’s happiness, and to adopt the views of a foreigner, a complete stranger, unacquainted with her history and her circumstances, and utterly unable to appreciate what she is doing in the matter. But I love my child, and this gives me patience. I wish for my child’s happiness far, far more than for my own, and this endows me with strength to unfold a story of sorrow about which I should have preferred to keep silence. I have educated my daughter in the right way. I am quite confident in the stability of my teaching and of the principles I have instilled into her mind. I see that her ideas have been disturbed, her filial piety has been tampered with, her unreasoning girlish fancies have been fostered, without regard to any rights or feelings of mine. It is my duty as a mother and as a Christian to meet this heavy trial with firmness and meekness. I am not afraid. Mia figlia, you have heard what Signora Hastings has said to me?’ ‘Yes, mamma,’ was the breathless response.