The letters were numerous. I read them all. Some of them were addressed to her by her grandmother. Some were written in a foreign hand and signed Luigi. They told me only a portion of her story--that she had married against her grandmother's will and that her husband had been an Italian. The first batch of her grandmother's letters comprised those which had been addressed to her at school. They spoke of her holidays; how glad the writer would be to have her granddaughter with her again. These were full of wise if rather trite counsels. The next batch were those addressed to her at London. These were full of reproaches and threats. There were only five of these letters, and some of them were smudged as with tears. Luigi's letters were addressed to her at school, to Miss Geraldine Dormer, Gore House Academy. They were full of violent protestations of endless love. Some of them began, _Carissima mia_; others, _Bella figlia mia_. One of them contained this passage: "The south is yellow with sunlight, but more splendid is the yellow of your hair. The dark skies of my native land tremble with gems; but more beautiful is the gloom of your eye, which gleams with the light of your soul!" They were mostly written in this strain, diversified here and there with practical questions to which answers were humbly supplicated. I learnt nothing from them. I returned them to the desk and went to look at Geraldine. She lay perfectly still. I resumed my seat and fell into thought. I wondered whether it was the loss of her husband that had made her crazy. Her marriage with him had been a love match; that was plain from the grandmother's reproaches. Passion, I thought, might easily work disastrous changes in such a nature as hers. But she had told me her husband had ill-treated her; and her secluded life, her consistent language on this subject, confirmed the truth of her assurance. In my reverie I stretched forth my hand to toy with a ring that hung from the desk. Accidentally jerking it, a drawer started out. I bent forward, and I saw that this drawer contained a flat long MS. volume, together with a couple of rings, a Catholic medal, and a silver crucifix. I extracted the manuscript and opened it. On the first page was inscribed the word "Diary." The opening entry was dated 185-. CHAPTER XI. The Diary opened thus: "Here am I in London. I don't know whether to be frightened or glad. Luigi is very kind, but he did not tell me he would bring me to such miserable lodgings as this. Would it not have been better had we never met? I should have known that a teacher cannot be rich. Yet I _do_ think him handsome, and he makes love so meltingly that I would rather live in a garret than not have married him. No letter from grandmamma. She is very unkind. Mamma would not have treated me so had she been alive. But what is an orphan to expect but unkindness?"