She put her hand to her breast, wavered, and came to a stand-still. He saw a little figure in black between him and those "gorgeous towers and cloud-capped palaces" of Alpine snow, which dimly closed in the north; and beneath the drooping hat a face even more changed and tragic than that which had haunted him since their meeting of the day before. [Illustration: "SHE THOUGHT OF CLIFFE STANDING BESIDE THE DOOR OF THE GREAT HALL."] "How do you do?" she said, mechanically, and would have passed him. But he stood in her path. As he stared at her an impulse of rage ran through him, resenting the wreck of anything so beautiful--rage against Ashe, who must surely be somehow responsible. "Aren't you wandering too far, Lady Kitty?" His voice shook under the restraint he put upon it. "You seem tired--very tired--and you are perhaps farther from your gondola than you think." "I am not tired." He hesitated. "Might I walk with you a little, or do you forbid me?" She said nothing, but walked on. He turned and accompanied her. One or two questions that he put to her--Had she companions?--Where had she left her gondola?--remained unanswered. He studied her face, and at last he laid a strong hand upon her arm. "Sit down. You are not fit for any more walking." He drew her towards some logs of driftwood on the upper sand, and she sank down upon them. He found a place beside her. "What is the matter with you?" he said, abruptly, with a harsh authority. "You are in trouble." A tremor shook her--as of the prisoner who feels on his limbs the first touch of the fetter. "No, no!" she said, trying to rise; "it is nothing. I--I didn't know it was so far. I must go home." His hand held her. "Kitty!" "Yes." Her voice was scarcely audible. "Tell me what hurts you! Tell me why you are here, alone, with a face like that! Don't be afraid of me! Could I lift a finger to harm a mother that has lost her child? Give me your hands." He gathered both hers into the warm shelter of his own. "Look at me--trust me! My heart has grown, Kitty, since you knew me last. It has taken into itself so many griefs--so many deaths. Tell me your griefs, poor child!--tell me!" He stooped and kissed her hands--most tenderly, most gravely. Tears rushed into her eyes. The wild emotions that were her being were roused beyond control. Bending towards him she began to pour out, first brokenly, then in a torrent, the wretched, incoherent story, of which the mere telling, in such an ear, meant new treachery to William and new ruin for herself. XXII