To the end of her life, Ragna never forgot that trip. The little steamer rushed along through the greenish-yellow water, following an endless winding channel marked by groups of piles. The very swish of the bows through the water, seemed carrying her inexorably onward to some untoward fate. She shrank from the imminent certainty, yet longed to know, to be sure. Nothing she thought, could be worse than this horrible state of semi-suspense. A fictitious suspense it was though, for her inner consciousness was aware that Dr. Ferrati had seen the truth; still as long as there was a possibility of doubt, she felt that she must cling to it. Other boats passed, gay with people in summer dress, there were _barche_ too, and gondolas with their bright summer awnings. She saw them apathetically, but between them and her, there rose distinct in her mental vision, the slender black-draped figure of Carolina, thrown in despair against the little side-altar. How she had pitied that girl--and now, here she was in like case! A bitter smile wreathed her lips. "And I thought to forget, to put it out of my life!" she murmured. The boat was a "diretto" and took them to the Piazzetta without intermediate stops, and there the Doctor put Ragna into a gondola for the remaining distance. The vibrating noonday heat beat down on her through the inadequate awning, she lay back dazed, but half conscious, until the hotel was reached. At last they were in the girl's cool, shaded room; the Doctor made his examination, and withdrew to the balcony, while Ragna dressed herself again; as soon as she was ready, she called him, and turning, he found her standing in the middle of the room. "Well?" she asked. "I am sorry, Signorina, but there is no possible doubt." She sat down heavily; against her inner knowledge, she had been hoping against hope. The red and yellow striped awning over the balcony cast a bright glow on the floor, through the parted Venetian blinds; a bowl of late roses stood on the table, filling the air with their musky perfume, and the heavy droning of flies against the ceiling emphasized the noon silence. The girl sat like a graven image, staring straight before her with terrible dry eyes, her nerveless hands hung by her side. Ferrati drew up a chair, and took one of the limp hands in his own. "Will you not tell me all about it, my child? Remember a doctor is a sort of lay confessor. Perhaps I can help you?" Thus had she offered to help the unfortunate girl in S. Mario! She laughed mirthlessly. "I said that myself to a girl a few days ago, she is coming to-morrow for me to help her--the blind leading the blind!" Her hardness alarmed the Doctor. "I must break this," he thought. "I must make her cry." But she had no intention of crying; in a hard, even voice she told him the tale of Prince Mirko, and the fateful drive over the Campagna, and when she had finished, relapsed into silence. "Poor little girl!" he said, stroking her hand. "Poor little girl!"