was to the nightingales thrilling through the night in those last melodies that would cease as the fire-flies would die with the fall of the wheat.
Yet in this intense stillness and desolation in which she dwelt it never came into her thoughts to seek out Este, never at any time. She could not go to him, without seeming to say, 'Have you forgotten—you my debtor in so much?'
She could not go to him without bringing both a rebuke and a reproach before her. If he forgot—he must forget. All she could do was to live on and wait; some time he might remember.
This seemed to her neither heroism nor sacrifice, but simple necessity.
If he had passed by her in a crowd she would have kissed the stones his steps had touched, but she would not have spoken, since to speak would have been to say to him, 'You are thankless.'
Her love was her religion.
Fools may say what they will; there is none holier.
She lived on without joy, but not wholly without hope. The long, slow-footed days seemed very long; the cloudy heat, the rain-
