remembrance._” She herself had been understudying the Queen and had been standing in the wings to watch how the mad-scene was taken. She could see the expression of mingled horror and pity on Bram’s face, as he took the sprig of rosemary from his sister’s hand. _Pray, love, remember._ “Bram,” she cried aloud in an agony of repentance. “I didn’t mean it. I’m not really mad. I won’t drown myself. I won’t really.” Then she flung herself face downward among the bushes of rosemary and wept. For an hour she lay hidden from the sun in that bitter-sweet grey-green gloom of the cliff’s undergrowth until at last her tears ceased to flow and she could stand up bravely to face again the future. More lovely now was the long sweep of the Parthenopean shore, more lucid the wash of golden air, richer and more profound the warm wintry Southern peace; and she standing there among the rosemary was transmuted by the timelessness of her grief into a timeless figure that might haunt for ever that calm and classic scene. The last sunset stain had faded from the cloudy cap of Vesuvius, and the street-lamps were already twinkling when Nancy got back to Naples. She went into a church, and there in a dark corner prayed to be forgiven for that brief madness when she had wished to take her life. She sat for a long while, thinking of happy times with Bram, soothed by the continuous coming and going of poor people to visit the Crib, all lit up at the other end of the church. She knelt once more to beg that all that was lost of Bram’s life might be found again in his daughter’s; and her ultimate prayer was as always for strength to devote herself entirely to Letizia’s happiness. Thus passed the fourth anniversary of the Clown’s death. CHAPTER XXII SORRENTO Two days after her visit to Posilipo Nancy came back from her singing-lesson to discover John Kenrick at the _pensione_. “I found that I could get away from England for a few days,” he announced. “And I thought I’d come and ascertain for myself how you really were getting on.” “Very badly,” Nancy told him. “So your last letter implied. But Gambone always errs on the side of discouragement. I’m going to have a chat with him on the way back to Bertolini’s. Will you dine with me there to-night? Or, no, wait a minute. I’ll come down and fetch you, and we’ll eat at a more native restaurant and go to the opera, or are you tired of the opera?” Nancy had to confess that she had not yet been to San Carlo. Kenrick was astonished. “I couldn’t very well go alone, and I haven’t had anybody I could ask to go with me,” she explained. “You’ve been feeling lonely,” he said quickly. “And you’re looking a bit overstrained. Has Gambone been working you too hard?” “I doubt if he thinks I’m worth working very hard,” said Nancy.