"What put my next bold words into my head, I don't know. It doesn't matter; the thought was in me--and out it came.

"'I think you have some burden on your mind,' I went on. 'If I can't relieve you of it, perhaps I can help you bear it. Come! tell me what it is.' I waited; but it was of no use--she never even looked at me.

Because I am in love myself, do I think everybody else is like me?

I thought she blushed. I don't know what else I thought. 'Are you in love?' I asked.

"She jumped up from her chair, so suddenly and so violently that she threw it on the floor. Still, not a word passed her lips. I found courage enough to go on--but not courage enough to look at her.

"'I love Ovid, and Ovid loves me,' I said. 'There is my consolation, whatever my troubles may be. Are you not so fortunate?' A dreadful expression of pain passed over her face. How could I see it, and not feel the wish to sympathise with her? I ran the risk, and said, 'Do you love somebody, who doesn't love you?'

"She turned her back on me, and went to the toilet-table. I think she looked at herself in the glass. 'Well,' she said, speaking to me at last, 'what else?'

"'Nothing else,' I answered--'except that I hope I have not offended you.'

"She left the glass as suddenly as she had approached it, and took up the candle again. Once more she held it so that it lit my face.

"'Guess who he is,' she said.

"'How can I do that?' I asked.

"She quietly put down the candle again. In some way, quite incomprehensible to myself, I seemed to have relieved her. She spoke to me in a changed voice, gently and sadly.

"You are the best of good girls, and you mean kindly. It's of no use--you can do nothing. Forgive my insolence yesterday; I was mad with envy of your happy marriage engagement. You don't understand such a nature as mine. So much the better! ah, so much the better! Good-night!'

"There was such hopeless submission, such patient suffering, in those words, that I could not find it in my heart to leave her. I thought of how I might have behaved, of the wild things I might have said, if Ovid had cared nothing for me. Had some cruel man forsaken her? That was _her_ secret. I asked myself what I could do to encourage her. Your last letter, with our old priest's enclosure, was in my pocket. I took it out.

"'Would you mind reading a short letter,' I said, 'before we wish each other goodnight?' I held out the priest's letter.

"She drew back with a dark look; she appeared to have some suspicion of it. 'Who is the writer?' she inquired sharply.

"'A person who is a stranger to you.'

"Her face cleared directly. She took the letter from me, and waited to hear what I had to say next. 'The person,' I told her, 'is a wise and good old man--the priest who married my father and mother, and baptised me. We all of us used to consult Father Patrizio, when we wanted advice.

My nurse Teresa felt anxious about me in Ovid's absence; she spoke to him about my marriage engagement, and of my exile--forgive me for using the word!--in this house. He said he would consider, before he gave her his opinion. The next day, he sent her the letter which you have got in your hand.'

"There, I came to a full stop; having something yet to say, but not knowing how to express myself with the necessary delicacy.

"'Why do you wish me to read the letter?' she asked, quietly.

"I think there is something in it which might--.'

"There, like a fool, I came to another full stop. She was as patient as ever; she only made a little sign to me to go on.

"'I think Father Patrizio's letter might put you in a better frame of mind,' I said; 'it might keep you from despising yourself.'

"She went back to her chair, and read the letter. You have permitted me to keep the comforting words of the good Father, among my other treasures. I copy his letter for you in this place--so that you may read it again, and see what I had in my mind, and understand how it affected poor Miss Minerva.

"'Teresa, my well-beloved friend,--I have considered the anxieties that trouble you, with this result: that I can do my best, conscientiously, to quiet your mind. I have had the experience of forty years in the duties of the priesthood. In that long time, the innermost secrets of thousands of men and women have been confided to me. From such means of observation, I have drawn many useful conclusions; and some of them may be also useful to you. I will put what I have to say, in the plainest and fewest words: consider them carefully, on your side. The growth of the better nature, in women, is perfected by one influence--and that influence is Love. Are you surprised that a priest should write in this way? Did you expect me to say, Religion? Love, my sister, _is_ Religion, in women. It opens their hearts to all that is good for them; and it acts independently of the conditions of human happiness. A miserable woman, tormented by hopeless love, is still the better and the nobler for that love; and a time will surely come when she will show it. You have fears for Carmina--cast away, poor soul, among strangers with hard hearts! I tell you to have no fears. She may suffer under trials; she may sink under trials. But the strength to rise again is in her--and that strength is Love.'

"Having read our old friend's letter, Miss Minerva turned back, and read it again--and waited a little, repeating some part of it to herself.

"'Does it encourage you?' I asked.

"She handed the letter back to me. 'I have got one sentence in it by heart,' she said.

"You will know what that sentence is, without my telling you. I felt so relieved, when I saw the change in her for the better--I was so inexpressibly happy in the conviction that we were as good friends again as ever--that I bent down to kiss her, on saying goodnight.

"She put up her hand and stopped me. 'No,' she said, 'not till I have done something to deserve it. You are more in need of help than you think. Stay here a little longer; I have a word to say to you about your aunt.'

"I returned to my chair, feeling a little startled. Her eyes rested on me absently--she was, as I imagined, considering with herself, before she spoke. I refrained from interrupting her thoughts. The night was still and dark. Not a sound reached our ears from without. In the house, the silence was softly broken by a rustling movement on the stairs. It came nearer. The door was opened suddenly. Mrs. Gallilee entered the room.

"What folly possessed me? Why was I frightened? I really could not help it--I screamed. My aunt walked straight up to me, without taking the smallest notice of Miss Minerva. 'What are you doing here, when you ought to be in your bed?' she asked.

"She spoke in such an imperative manner--with such authority and such contempt--that I looked at her in astonishment. Some suspicion seemed to be roused in her by finding me and Miss Minerva together.

"No more gossip!' she called out sternly. 'Do you hear me? Go to bed!'

"Was it not enough to rouse anybody? I felt my pride burning in my face.

'Am I a child, or a servant?' I said. 'I shall go to bed early or late as I please.'

"She took one step forward; she seized me by the arm, and forced me to my feet. Think of it, Teresa! In all my life I have never had a hand laid on me except in kindness. Who knows it better than you! I tried vainly to speak--I saw Miss Minerva rise to interfere--I heard her say, 'Mrs. Gallilee, you forget yourself!' Somehow, I got out of the room. On the landing, a dreadful fit of trembling shook me from head to foot. I sank down on the stairs. At first, I thought I was going to faint. No; I shook and shivered, but I kept my senses. I could hear their voices in the room.

"Mrs. Gallilee began. 'Did you tell me just now that I had forgotten myself?'

"Miss Minerva answered, 'Certainly, madam. You _did_ forget yourself.'

"The next words escaped me. After that, they grew louder; and I heard them again--my aunt first.

"'I am dissatisfied with your manner to me, Miss Minerva. It has latterly altered very much for the worse.'

"'In what respect, Mrs. Gallilee?'

"'In this respect. Your way of speaking to me implies an assertion of equality--'

"'Stop a minute, madam! I am not so rich as you are. But I am at a loss to know in what other way I am not your equal. Did you assert your superiority--may I ask--when you came into my room without first knocking at the door?'

"'Miss Minerva! Do you wish to remain in my service?'

"'Say employment, Mrs. Gallilee--if you please. I am quite indifferent in the matter. I am equally ready, at your entire convenience, to stay or to go.'

"Mrs. Gallilee's voice sounded nearer, as if she was approaching the door. 'I think we arranged,' she said, 'that there was to be a month's notice on either side, when I first engaged you?'

"'Yes--at my suggestion.'

"'Take your month's notice, if you please.'

"'Dating from to-morrow?'

"'Of course!'