“Yes,” she presently said, “I think my friend of long ago must be dead; not that I speak as one who knows; and it must be to spare your feelings that your father never mentions her name. But you will sometimes think of her with kindly affection, will you not?” “Yes—yes—that I will not fail to do,” said Ethel in a voice which was hardly more than a whisper. “It is all you _can_ do. And now I will detain you no longer. Let me kiss you once; don’t refuse me that, and then I will go! As she spoke she lifted her veil, revealing to Ethel a countenance of noble proportions, but worn and white as that of one newly-risen from a bed of sickness, illumined by two eyes of midnight blackness, out of which there looked at her a soul so anguished and fraught with a sort of dumb despair, that the girl involuntarily recoiled a step. But only for an instant; the next both her hands went out to those of the other and she felt herself drawn forward, close—so close that she could feel the other’s heart-beats against her bosom. Then the beautiful pallid face was bent to hers, and soft kisses, a dozen or more, such as those a mother bestows on her sleeping infant, were showered on the lips, the eyes and the brow of the astonished girl, interspersed with half-whispered exclamations in a language strange to Ethel, but which sounded far more soft and musical than her own. Then suddenly she felt herself released—it was all over in a minute at the most—except that her hands were still imprisoned. For a space of some half-dozen seconds the stranger’s eyes seemed to be drinking in her every lineament, as though she would fain fix them for ever in her memory. Then she suddenly lifted the girl’s hands to her lips, imprinted on them two passionate kisses and dropped them abruptly. “Farewell for ever,” she said. “Remember me in your prayers.” As the last word left her lips, the veil fell like a shroud over the ivory-white face and anguished eyes, and almost before Ethel realised it she was alone. It was late when Giovanna got back to her lodgings—so late that Luigi was becoming seriously uneasy about her. It had been raining heavily since seven o’clock, and when she did arrive her garments were saturated. She vouchsafed no explanation, and Luigi knew better than to ask her for any. But he could not help looking at her, for two large hectic spots burnt in her cheeks, and her eyes shone with a strange feverish light in which there was yet a far-away look as though her mind were otherwhere, and she was only half-conscious of the hour and her surroundings. “Good gracious, aunt, you are wet through!” exclaimed Luigi after watching her for a few moments. “You will catch your death of cold.” She came to herself, as it were, with a start.