"Oh, ay—surely—I am a fool!" muttered Griselda, slowly turning to leave me. But her expression was not that of one chastened in her folly. "Is Jimmie in the house?" I asked. "No, Jimmie is across the way playing with the Sturgis boy." "Very well, Griselda. Thank you." A few minutes later Alicia entered the house—alone. I rose heavily and walked toward the open door leading to the hallway. Her drooping dispirited look struck me like a blow—my radiant Alicia! Even her pretty small hat that I admired seemed to squat listlessly upon her beautiful head—beautiful even in dejection. But no sooner did she perceive me approaching than she looked up and smiled piteously. "Oh, hello, Uncle Ranny—" but the usual sparkle in her tone was sadly lacking—"have you been all right?" She removed her hat. "Oh, quite—thanks, Alicia. But a little lonely. Won’t you come in and talk to me, if you have nothing better to do?" "Of course I shall, you poor Uncle Ranny—" and her tone became more hearty. "What have you been doing with yourself all alone—?" And I realized that endearments were trembling on the tip of her tongue and my soul craved them, but I interrupted her. She had had enough that morning. And the endearments of pity would have crushed me utterly. "Oh, there’s Boccaccio," I muttered, "and puttering about generally—at which I’m an expert. Sit down," I added, as she entered the study. "Am I mistaken, or did you tire yourself out walking too far?" "Oh, no, dear—I had a lovely walk," she answered brightly. "Don’t you go wasting sympathy on me. I feel ashamed of my robustiousness, and you convalescing here alone. But I shan’t leave you alone again to-day. Wouldn’t you like me to read some Boccaccio to you?—But then my Italian is so ferocious, and yours is so beautiful, you’d hate me if I clipped the vowels too short." She had thus far made no mention of Randolph. So full did my heart feel of love and sympathy for this poor beautiful child struggling alone with her problem and pain that I ached to take her to my heart, to beg her to confide in me, to let me share her troubles. A lump rose in my throat and I knew that one movement in her direction would make all my manhood dissolve in tears like a child! No, I must not—I could not. "Read me," I whispered huskily, after a pause, "two or three of the sonnets in the ’Vita Nuova’ of Dante." "Lovely!" cried Alicia, jumping up and seizing the book. "_A ciascun alma presa_," she began—"to every captive soul and gentle heart ... greeting in the name of their Lord, who is love!" I did not listen after the first stanza. I endeavored only to still the tumult in my brain and to think what to do for Alicia. Somehow, some way, I must put an end at once to this beloved child’s torment—without causing her pain. Three sonnets she had read, or possibly four, and then she paused and searched my face. "Do you want any more?"