Night after night the representation of the “Prometheus” went on with undiminished success; and with a larger and profounder appreciation of its meaning among the better class of minds. Langhetti began to show a stronger and fuller confidence in the success of his piece than he had yet dared to evince. Yet now its success seemed assured. What more could he wish? September came on, and every succeeding night only made the success more marked. One day Langhetti was with Beatrice at the theatre, and they were talking of many things. There seemed to be something on his mind, for he spoke in an abstracted manner. Beatrice noticed this at last, and mentioned it. He was at first very mysterious. “It must be that secret of yours which you will not tell me,” said she. “You said once before that it was connected with me, and that you would tell it to me when the time came. Has not the time come yet?” “Not yet,” answered Langhetti. “When will it come?” “I don’t know.” “And will you keep it secret always?” “Perhaps not.” “You speak undecidedly.” “I am undecided.” “Why not decide now to tell it?” pleaded Beatrice. “Why should I not know it? Surely I have gone through enough suffering to bear this, even if it bring something additional.” Langhetti looked at her long and doubtfully. “You hesitate,” said she. “Yes.” “Why?” “It is of too much importance.” “That is all the more reason why I should know it. Would it crush me if I knew it?” “I don’t know. It might.” “Then let me be crushed.” Langhetti sighed. “Is it something that you know for certain, or is it only conjecture?” “Neither,” said he, “but half-way between the two.” Beatrice looked earnestly at him for some time. Then she put her head nearer to his and spoke in a solemn whisper. “It is about my mother!” Langhetti looked at her with a startled expression. “Is it not?” He bowed his head. “It is--it is. And if so, I implore--I conjure you to tell me. Look--I am calm. Think--I am strong. I am not one who can be cast down merely by bad news.” “I may tell you soon.” “Say you will.” “I will,” said Langhetti, after a struggle. “When?” “Soon.” “Why not to-morrow?” “That is too soon; you are impatient.” “Of course I am,” said Beatrice. “Ought I not to be so? Have you not said that this concerns me? and is not all my imagination aroused in the endeavor to form a conjecture as to what it may be?” She spoke so earnestly that Langhetti was moved, and looked still more undecided. “When will you tell me?” “Soon, perhaps,” he replied, with some hesitation. “Why not now?” “Oh no, I must assure myself first about some things.” “To-morrow, then.” He hesitated. “Yes,” said she; “it must be to-morrow. If you do not, I shall think that you have little or no confidence in me. I shall expect it to-morrow.” Langhetti was silent. “I shall expect it to-morrow,” repeated Beatrice. Langhetti still continued silent. “Oh, very well; silence gives consent!” said she, in a lively tone.