"I ought to have spoken, but I dared not. I was younger then and so poor. I was obliged to go back to my Italia to try if I could not win fame there and fortune for my little flower of beauty--my May-bud. Claire--dear sister--no, no, you frown--you must forgive us, for we were so young, and we loved so much. Ah, you are not well. I frighten you. I came here so sudden. But my news is so good. I have succeeded so in my art, and I have possessions too. My poor father is dead. I am not a rich man--what you English call rich; but I have enough, and you will forgive me. But, May? She is not here?" "No, no," said Claire, with her lips turning ashy pale. "She is not far away?" "Not far away," said Claire, "but Louis, Monsieur Gravani--" "No, no, not Monsieur--not Signore. I am Louis, your fratello, your brother. Now tell me. My heart beats to be with her once again. She is not changed, I know. The same little angel face that Raffaello painted, and that I have had ever in my heart." "No, she is not changed," sighed Claire. "No, she could not change. La mia fiorella!" "But Louis--" "Yes? What? Why do you look at me so? She is ill!" He raised his voice to a wild cry, and his handsome face grew convulsed as he seized Claire's hands. "No, no," she cried. "No, no; she is quite well." "Then take me to her now. I can wait no longer. I must see her now." "No, no, you cannot. It is impossible," cried Claire. "Then there is something that you do not tell me. Speak; you are killing me." "She--she--my poor sister--she thought--she heard--she had news, Louis-- that you were dead." "Dead?--I?--dead? Oh, my poor little flower!" he cried, with a ring of tender pity in his voice, but changing to a fierce burst of anger on the instant. "But who told her? Who sent her those lies?" "I don't know--I never knew. But she grieved for you, Louis--because you were dead." "My little tender flower! Oh! oh! it is too cruel. But I am here-- here, waiting to press her to my heart once more. You shall take me to her now." "It would be impossible. I could not. It would kill her. No, you must wait till to-morrow." "No, no; I could not wait," he cried excitedly. "I love her. I am here. I must see her now." Claire felt beside herself, and her hands dropped helplessly to her side, as if she despaired of averting the catastrophe that was to come. What was she to do?--say something to deceive this man and keep him waiting until she had seen and prepared her sister? The task was hateful to her in the extreme; and it seemed as if her life was to be made up of subterfuges and concealments, all of which caused reflections upon her. "You love May still?" she said at last.