“It is much easier for strangers, you see, than for intimates to obtain a fortunate change in the dispositions of people who suffer.” “But your sister is not suffering! Look with what an alert and supple step she is walking there, in front of us.” “Yes; but just now her nerves sustain her. This very night she will relapse into a feeling of melancholy, and be completely prostrated. I shall not be able to draw a single word from her.” “If you would authorize me to call and see her, and she also would permit me, I should find great pleasure in her company.” The Italian grasped Marcel effusively by the hand. “I do not know how to thank you for your kindness. But it would be expecting too much from you. Poor Anetta would quickly tire out your patience. She is a capricious child. You do not know her yet.” They had no opportunity to continue, for Madame Vignola turned towards them a questioning look, which asked— “What are you two plotting there?” “Count Cesare, madame, is handing over to me his authority over you during his absence,” said Marcel, gaily. “He is making me responsible for your state of mind. Accordingly, from to-morrow, I am in charge of your good or bad temper. But you must be willing to put up with my tyranny.” Her countenance became grave; in low but fascinating tones she said— “Yes, he is right. You must not leave me. When I am alone all kinds of gloomy thoughts come into my head. Be a friend to me. Cesare will not be long away, and then we will resume our walks in the woods. Until then, call for me at the villa; you will always be welcome.” Count Agostini had left, and Marcel, by invitation, was now calling at the Cavée. The nearer he drew the faster became his pace, and his temples were quite flushed. On reaching the villa he suddenly slackened his steps, for he had heard Madame Vignola’s voice. She was alone in the salon, the windows were open, and the passionate melody, in which both art and sentiment were wonderfully blended, had filled Marcel’s soul with a keen jealousy. It was the “Gipsies’ Cantilena,” by Marackzy, the great Hungarian artist, who died of grief when in full possession of his genius and glory— “Viens sur ma levre parfumée, Rose fremissante et pamée, Trempée encore des pleurs d’amour, Cueillir le baiser, dont la flamme Fera de mon cœur a ton âme Jaillir. . . . ” The song stopped suddenly, as though the voice were broken by sobs. It seemed to Marcel that the singer’s very heart had broken under the influence of some mysterious grief. Unable to contain himself, he rushed through the garden, and reached the salon. Madame Vignola was still seated at the piano. She was weeping bitterly, her beautiful pale face leaning on her hand. At the sight Marcel gave a cry of pain, which made the young woman suddenly look up. Holding out her hand to Marcel, apparently ashamed at being thus surprised, she said—