Chapter XVIII: Francesca's Autumn

And did she love him?--What if she did not?
Then home was still the home of happiest years,
Nor thought was exiled to partake his lot,
Nor heart lost courage through foreboding fears,
Nor echo did against her secret plot,
Nor music her betray to painful tears;
Nor life become a dream, and sunshine dim,
And riches poverty, because of him.
JEAN INGELOW.

"Tell me all about it over again, Florestano; I think you have made a mistake in choosing to be a fisherman. You should have been a professional tale-teller. Tell it me all over again from the very beginning."

The old fisherman pulled his red Phrygian cap lower over his wrinkled forehead, shook back his grizzled locks, glanced up at his brown sail to see that all was well, then looked across at the sweet, eager face opposite him, and felt willing enough to obey the request.

Neither the healthy life on board the _Pilgrim_, nor the weeks among the Swiss mountains which had followed it, had been able to keep the color in Francesca's cheeks; she was as pale as a lily, and almost as fragile-looking, but the mouth and eyes were as sweet as ever, and betrayed nothing of her story. She sat in the stern of the little fishing-boat and listened to the old man with half-averted face while they sailed homeward, letting one of her long white hands trail through the water, and looking steadily down into those dark blue depths as once more Florestano repeated the story of Carlo's first appearance.

"_Gran Dio!_ he is good as a piece of bread!" exclaimed the old fisherman. "Who but he would have thought of coming all the way out here to fetch a shabby old fellow like me, and giving me a fine place at the theatre, where I could see as well as those who carry a heavy purse, and are too fine to walk on foot, and spend their days in idleness? He came, signorina, bringing with him the little boy, his nephew."

"Was he looking well?" asked Francesca, still keeping her face turned away.

"_Ebbene_, signorina! he was grave and quiet, doubtless thinking of the evening, and now I come to think of his face, I remember it was browner than it was wont to be; he had lost his color, being shut up so much studying." Florestano could hardly help smiling to himself, because he thought he had given these reasons with such an admirable air of conviction. "But except for that he was just like himself, signorina, just like. He would take an oar on the way back to Naples as if we were back in the old times, and I was rowing him to school once more, as I did for many a year in the warm weather. And then, when in the evening I saw him stand on the stage, with all the people praising him, and he looking so fine in his velvet dress and his sword, then I did feel proud to think that only a few hours back he had taken my oar from me that I might rest a bit. He couldn't have treated me better, signorina, if I'd been his own father."

"And the people applauded him a great deal?" asked Francesca.

"_Capperi!_ you may believe me, signorina, the noise made my head ache for days after. How he bore it I don't know, but afterwards, when they called for him, he came before the curtain looking as modest and natural as if he were but just an ordinary man in his own home, and bowed as though he were pleased that we had found pleasure in his acting. And when I went to thank him and take leave I came upon him just at the stage-door, and he said he wanted a breath of fresh air, for the theatre had been nearly as hot as the crater of Vesuvius; and he walked with me down to the Piliero till I could have thought he had been a boy again: he seemed so like himself that I could hardly believe 'twas he that had been Valentino a few minutes since, with all the house crying over his death."

"Then he acted very well?"

"He just made it real, signorina! Gran Dio! I can never forget his face as he drove back the devil with the cross, stepping out boldly before the soldiers as though he feared naught. 'Twas fine to see the old devil cringing and backing! I can tell you, signorina, that I came away that night believing in the old faith once more. There's more in the Cross than they would wish to have us think down at our club in Naples."

Francesca thought she would have liked to tell her father that story, but Carlo's name had never passed between them since her betrothal had been ended, and she knew that she would not be the first to break the silence.

Comforted and yet saddened by her talk with the old fisherman, she was set down on the beach and made her way through the vineyard to the familiar olive-garden, where she found Sibyl helping two or three peasant women to gather the olives. There was something which soothed her in the silvery shade of those gnarled old trees; she sat down on the grass, leaning against one of the terraces, and watched Sibyl's little blue-clad figure flitting hither and thither, and the peasants in their sombre stuff gowns and gay handkerchiefs tied over their heads. Under one of the trees a baby had been laid on a tattered old shawl, while close by its mother, busy with her basket of olives, sang a quaint little Neapolitan song to keep it quiet. The air was quite familiar to Francesca, but she had never before caught the words and, listened now attentively as the mother sang:--

"Ah! com'è bella la mia Bimba,
Quando parlo e quando ride
Quando meco ella deride,
I sospiri del mio cor.
Questo giglio inamorato
Bimba mia chi t' hai la dato?
O capisco t' el donava
L'innocenza del tuo bel cor.
Bella Bimba! Bella Bimba!
Tu sei l' angelo d' amor."

The chorus, with its light-hearted repetitions of "_Bella Bimba_," brought the tears to Francesca's eyes, but the baby tired of lying on the ground, began to cry, and with the natural instinct of helpfulness, which was perhaps her strongest characteristic, Francesca sprang up and begged leave to nurse it. Then, as she paced to and fro with her little white-capped charge, hushing it to sleep with one of Carlo's songs, she realized as she had never done before that to tend the children of others is the sacred right of every childless woman; and somehow her world, which had seemed just before so hopelessly narrowed, broadened out again and looked less dark and dreary.

Presently the peasants finished their work and went away. Francesca gave the sleeping baby to its mother, and, taking Sibyl's hand, strolled homeward.

"Why, who can be here?" exclaimed Sibyl, "some one talking with father. Look!"

Francesca's heart leaped into her mouth, for she caught sight through the trees of a panama hat exactly like Carlo's. In an instant a hundred wild hopes and conjectures had passed through her mind, to be all too quickly dispelled, for us they drew nearer Captain Britton came down the path to meet them, and she saw that the panama hat belonged to Count Carossa. For a moment she could not help hating him; what right had he to take Carlo's house, to dress like him, to walk down that path which was forever associated in her mind with the day of her betrothal? It was all she could do to greet him as usual.

"I find Count Carossa is going in to Naples this evening to the ball," said Captain Britton, "so I have offered him a seat in our carriage. What time had you thought of starting, Fran?"

Francesca had thought of going early and returning early, but quickly realized that Count Carossa would probably stay late, so she proposed that they should go an hour later than she had first intended, and, without being discourteous, managed to seem perfectly indifferent as to the arrangement. The Count was piqued by her manner; she was the first pretty foreigner he had ever met who was not willing to flirt with him, and he was determined to win her. She was obliged to promise him a dance, to stand by and look polite while her father invited him to dinner that evening, and later on even to accept some white azaleas which he brought with him from the Villa Bruno, not at all understanding that the mere sight of them would recall to her the image of her absent lover, of whose existence the Count had no idea.

He was a good talker, and the Captain was delighted with him, while for the present he was very willing to spend most of his energies on his host, leaving Francesca unmolested, and enjoying the sight of her as she sat at the head of the table, looking exquisite in her white dress and with the flowers nestled against her snowy neck. Something had brought a faint tinge of color to her cheeks; perhaps it was that the Count had asked a few innocent questions as to the former inhabitants of the Villa Bruno, or perhaps it was vexation at the thought that she had been obliged to accept his flowers. She felt certain that her cousin Kate would have managed to avoid accepting them, would have framed some quick and dexterous reply, or thought of a good excuse. But no way of escape had suggested itself to her: to have refused them point-blank would have been both rude and prudish, and though she disliked the Count, yet she was too innately courteous to tolerate for a moment anything which would needlessly wound the feelings of another. And then, with a sudden pang, some Italian phrase spoken by the visitor recalled Carlo to her mind, and she remembered how short a time it was since he had sat in that very place at the table, and the tears would well up into her eyes. She had become of late, however, rather an adept in the matter of managing tears. She knew to a nicety how far they might rise without being noticeable, and both to her father and to the Count she seemed a very self-possessed little hostess, only intent on making everything easy and pleasant.

The Captain had with a ponderous effort turned the conversation from the Villa Bruno, but after a while the Count innocently reverted to it.

"I suppose you, like all the rest of the world, were taken by surprise by Signor Donati," he remarked, readjusting his table-napkin, which had slipped out of his collar, and failing to note the expression of the Captain's face: "they say no one had notion that he sang at all, so strictly had Piale kept him."

"He never sang out of his own house," said Captain Britton, trying desperately to make his voice and manner natural, and not daring to look at his daughter. "But I have heard him sing there. There was a song of Piale's which he used to sing; Piale has written some very pretty things, and this had the merit of having English words. Let me see, what was it called, Francesca?"

He had seldom felt more flurried and uncomfortable; he fancied the Count could read all that was passing in his heart, and in despair he tried to turn the conversation to Piale's music and appealed for help to Francesca, though he knew that it was cowardly to do so.

"It was called 'Love for a Life.' The words were Tennyson's," said Francesca. "Do you read English at all?" she asked, turning to the Count.

Then, as he began to lament his ignorance of her native language, her heart, which had been beating wildly while she replied so composedly to her father's question, grew quieter, and even felt a little glow of justifiable satisfaction.

"I managed that rather well," she thought to herself.

Captain Britton, grateful for her help, and admiring her calmness all the more because it contrasted with his own blundering speech, seized the next chance for intervening with his favorite story of how he had met the Laureate at Lord Blamton's, and by the time that was ended Francesca was able to leave the dining-room.

"After all," she thought to herself, "to hear his name is better than silence. If father had not been there, if I had been just alone with some one who didn't know, it would have been a sort of comfort even to hear him spoken of. I wonder if the Count went to hear him? I wonder if he really admired him? I wonder if he will perhaps talk about him at the ball to-night? I hope he will, and yet--and yet I half fear it. Could I possibly manage my face? If he praised him could I look just as if Carlo were any ordinary singer? If he found fault could I help growing angry? Why," she laughed to herself, but with more of sadness than mirth, "Carlo's turning actor has forced me to turn actress! Oh, my love! my love! I wonder where you are! I wonder what you are doing! I wish,--oh, how I wish we weren't going to this ball to-night! To be forced to dance with a heartache is about as pleasant as to be forced to eat with a headache."

But Francesca changed her mind when she entered the ball-room an hour or two later, for the very first person she caught sight of was Enrico Ritter. Hitherto, to tell the truth, she had rather disliked Enrico, had even been a little jealous of him, grudging the time which Carlo spent in his company, and resenting his habit of spending long days at the Villa Bruno. Now he seemed to her the only man in Naples worth looking at, and she thought how delightful his blunt, uncomplimentary, almost rude manner would be after Count Carossa's veiled lovemaking, which, with its familiar Italian, would seem to her like a horrible parody of Carlo's.

When she came into the room Enrico was at the far end talking to some Americans whom Francesca knew by sight. She felt almost certain that he saw her, and waited in trembling hope for his approach; but he never came, and before long she was surrounded by a little throng of worshippers, and her card was speedily filled. When Count Carossa had written his name there was only one vacant place for the waltz which followed the _cotillon_.

"Will you not let me have this one, too?" he asked, beseechingly.

She avoided his eager, brown eyes, and glanced quickly in Enrico's direction. He was making one of those profound, awkward-looking bows of his to a pretty little Neapolitan, and she felt a conviction that he did not mean to ask her to dance. It was hard to be avoided by the one man in the room whom she desired to talk to, and persecuted by the one she most wished to avoid! She felt angry with Enrico and angry with the Count, and though she seldom asserted herself her spirit rose now, and she said, quietly,--

"Thank you; I shall not dance after the _cotillon_."

"You are quite right; it is a tiring affair. But you will permit me to sit out with you, signorina?"

"I wish his eyes were green, or gray, or anything but brown," thought Francesca to herself, naughtily. "I wish he was French, or German, or anything but Italian!" Then aloud, "No, I don't think I shall make any promises. But perhaps I shall sit out with the partner I happen to choose in the _cotillon_. We will see how things arrange themselves."

She smiled, and there was the least little touch of coquetry in her manner, for which she hated herself. But, then, what was a poor girl to do in such a predicament? Must she throw away her sole chance of hearing about her lover for the sake of sitting out with his rival? If the Count was conceited enough to think that she meant to choose him in the _cotillon_ it was surely no fault of hers; but he evidently did think so, and she somehow felt vexed with herself, and yet was unable to see how she could have acted differently. She foresaw a time of trouble, since men would be provoking enough to fall in love with her face, and it was clearly impossible that she should go about the world labeled with the notice,--"This is to certify that the heart of Francesca Britton is given to one Carlo Donati, and therefore no lovers need apply."

However, she had not much time to think over the difficulties in abstract, she was obliged to dance, and smile, and listen to dozens of pretty speeches, and when most bored by them to reflect, "Enrico is here, and will certainly know all about Carlo. Enrico is here, and there is yet one chance of a talk with him."

The excitement and the eager hope made her happier than she had been for a long time, and, moreover, the mere exercise was doing her good and bringing the color to her cheeks; although she had hated the thought of the ball beforehand, she was too young and too genuinely fond of dancing not to forget her grief every now and then, and really to enjoy it much as Sibyl might have done.

All this time Enrico had watched her critically. At first he had intended to ask her to dance, and to write and give Carlo a faithful and particular account of every word she had said. But when he saw her surrounded by admirers, and dispensing her favors with the unconscious dignity of a little queen, then something like resentment began to stir in his heart, and he wondered whether after all she deserved Carlo's devotion, whether it was even remotely likely that she would be faithful to him.

He was angry with her for looking so lovely, and for smiling so charmingly; with all his philosophy he never once asked himself the question, how was she to help it? He was angry with her for being admired by other men, and angry with her for looking happy while she danced, and he hugged his old conviction to his heart--"There is no such thing as love in the world! all is selfishness under the sun." And yet, though he professed to hold firmly to his creed, he longed to-night to see it falsified; he would have liked, at any rate, to think that his friend and the beautiful English girl were those strange exceptions which, according to the proverb, prove the rule.

At length the _cotillon_ was danced, and the time arrived when Francesca, the acknowledged _belle_ of the evening, was seated in the middle of the room with a mirror in her hand, while those who were eager to be her partners went up one by one behind her, and looked over her shoulder so that their faces were reflected in the glass. If she refused them, she threw her handkerchief across the mirror, and it seemed to-night as if no one pleased her, for one after another was rejected, and Enrico was enchanted to see the look of confidence with which Count Carossa had approached her changed to undisguisable chagrin as he retired into the ranks of the refused.

"Go and try your chance," urged a voice in Enrico's heart. But he reflected that it was well enough to see other men rejected, but not so pleasant to be refused oneself.

"For Carlo's sake," urged the voice; "it is your sole chance of talking to her."

Much against his own inclination he moved forward and looked grimly down upon the mirror. His face was so funny a contrast to all the worshipping faces which had preceded it, that Francesca could have found it in her heart to laugh at it had she not been so happy and relieved. To the astonishment of every one, including Enrico himself, she made the sign of acceptance, and with the proud sense of possession his good-humor returned, and he was ready to believe nothing but good of her.

"I thought you were never coming," she said under her breath, when talking was possible.

"Did you wish for me?" he asked in his cold, rather sarcastic voice. "I thought you were far too well provided with cavaliers to care for so indifferent a dancer."

"You ought to have known that you were the one man in the room I should care to talk with," she said quickly, stung by his tone, and by the perception of what he must have thought of her. But the next moment she half regretted her words, for Enrico's whole face changed and he lifted his eyes to hers with the look in them which she could not bear to see, save in the eyes of the man she loved.

"I thought you would tell me of Carlo," she said, determined to speak out boldly, though she would have preferred a more quiet place for the talk. "Have you heard from him?"

"Three times," said Enrico, recovering his usual manner.

"Ah! so often!" she exclaimed, with mingled jealousy and pleasure in her tone.

They were interrupted for a minute or two by the necessity of attending to the dance. In the next interval he saw that the jealousy had given place to unclouded satisfaction, and it was almost in the tone of her old childish days that she said, "Oh, you will tell me all about him, will you not? You are his friend, I know, and for his sake you will still be mine, I hope."

"Indeed, I will," he said very kindly, "if you will let me. You never liked me in the old days; I daresay I was very disagreeable."

"No, it was my fault," said Francesca. "I was so jealous of you because you took up the time, and I was afraid he cared for you more than me, but now--but now I am not jealous any more." She laughed a little, and glanced up at him with a humorous look in her dark gray eyes.

"I would do anything to serve you," said Enrico, "I cannot help still thinking of you as one who belongs to Carlo, and for that reason your slightest wish shall be a command to me."

"Thank you, you are so kind; you understand so well, Enrico," she replied, quickly adopting the tone of brotherly and sisterly intimacy which he had carefully instilled into his last remark. She was very grateful to him for putting in that saving clause, "for that reason," and dismissed forever from her mind the fear which had seized her not long since that Enrico was going over into the tiresome ranks of her adorers. He was going to do no such thing; he was going to be to her just the strong, kind, brotherly friend she needed.

"I am glad it is over," she exclaimed, as the music ceased, "do let us get somewhere away from all these people. Are you engaged for the next dance?"

"No," said Enrico, hardly knowing whether to be amused or charmed by her unconventional frankness.

"Ah! I am so glad, for I saved it on purpose, and made Count Carossa so cross. Please, please sit out with me somewhere and tell me about the letters."

Enrico in his secret soul felt a thrill of pride as he reflected that the belle of the evening had besought him to stay with her. Then all selfish thoughts faded away in admiration of the love which made shy, timid Francesca so innocently bold, so delightfully unlike the girls whom he was in the habit of meeting in society.

He led her into the conservatory, which was prettily hung with Chinese lanterns, and here, at the far end, they discovered a charming little nook, with a rustic seat half hidden by ferns and flowering plants.

"I will send you the letters to read if you like; I could always do that," began Enrico.

"No," she said, with a sigh, "I don't think it would be right, for my father made me promise not to write to him or receive letters from him, and that would seem like a sort of subterfuge. But it can't be wrong to hear about him now that we have met at last. Where did he write from?"

"The first letter was from Malta; he seemed fairly cheerful, made great fun over the colorless island, and grew very patriotic over his comparisons. I am afraid he feels his exile a great deal. You see he is such a thorough Italian; all his interests are bound up with the country. Then, too, he was a good deal pained because those idiots down at the Circle of Social Instruction--the club, you know, in which he had always taken so much interest--quite misunderstood his turning public singer, upbraided him with his desertion of the cause--much they knew about it!--and called him frivolous and self-seeking, just as if they were a parcel of English Puritans, if you will pardon the comparison."

Francesca sighed. "It seems as if all the world were against him."

"But that is what such knight-errants must expect," said Enrico.

"I can't see why," said Francesca, sadly; "of course they would expect the evil to be arrayed against them, but when their fellow-soldiers turn upon them that seems hard. Still I think he was prepared for it; he counted the cost before he set out,--not that that makes it any easier to bear."

"He wrote again from Gibraltar, where they seemed to have had a busy time," continued Enrico; "and then again he wrote on board the steamer and posted the letter in England, so they are safely there, though the letter, being posted on landing, gave no particulars as to his first notions of the country."

Francesca was silent for a minute, the bare, dry facts were so unsatisfying, she wanted to know all the little details, she longed so terribly to see the letters themselves. Enrico partly understood, but found it impossible to come to her help. He had had no idea that it would have proved so hard to give any coherent account of his friend's long letters. While he was racking his brains for some quotable sentence, he became aware of voices at a little distance beyond their leafy screen; he heard the word "Donati," and then, as the speakers drew nearer, the whole conversation became distinctly audible.

"Well, his uncle is furious about it,--disowned him on the spot."

"You mark my words, Badia, there's a woman in the case. For all Donati's high reputation I would stake my life on it. These fellows who set up for being moral, if once they are touched, go to greater lengths than we should."

"For the matter of that," remarked the other, "it is likely enough he should turn singer with such a voice; magnificent! the finest baritone I ever heard."

"_Corpo del diavolo!_ you are as innocent as a child, my friend! Would a man throw over a fortune, and a good match, and a profession to boot? Besides, see how quickly it was all arranged! One week we were congratulating him on being an _avvocato_, the next this fair unknown had lured him on to the stage."

"What about a match? I heard nothing of that."

"I assure you I have it on the best authority that he was betrothed to Miss Britton, and left her for the sake of the fair unknown."

"Capperi! This is truly a chapter from a romance! Let me see, who was there in Merlino's Company? The little De Caisne, do you think? or Domenica Borelli?"

The reply was inaudible, there came a sound of laughter, then the voices died away in the distance.

Enrico had been on the point of dashing forward to put a peremptory stop to the malicious gossip, but the recollection of Francesca's presence made him pause. To discuss the matter before her was out of the question, and even had she not been there it would have been almost impossible to interfere to any purpose, so cunningly were the falsehoods interwoven with the truth. He was so angry that at first he could not spare time to look at his companion, but when the speakers had left the conservatory he turned to Francesca, an indignant exclamation trembling on his lips. The exclamation was never uttered, however, for the sight of her face almost choked him; it was bathed in tears, of which she seemed unconscious, for she made no effort to hide them; her hands were tightly locked together, and the tears rained down over her lovely pink and white cheeks. She had not stirred since their conversation had been interrupted, her face was still turned to his, just as it had been when he told her of Carlo's letters. Enrico longed to rush after the slanderers and crack their skulls together; he had never in his whole life felt so savage and yet so tender, so eager to comfort and yet so conscious of his own unfitness.

"Don't heed those brutes," he entreated. "After all, you know every public character is exposed to this sort of thing, and really, upon my soul, if one were not so angry one would be obliged to laugh at such an absurd notion."

Francesca did not speak, but she was recalled to the present, and made an effort to stop crying.

Enrico thought she had never looked so lovely before, and felt that her tears were making sad havoc of his philosophy, and that, in self-defence, he must do what he could to check them.

"See," he began, in his kindest voice, "if you go back to the ball-room presently, and people notice that you have been crying, it will make an opening for more of this infernal gossip."

"Yes," she said, with a quiver in her voice which made his heart ache. "I had not thought of that;" and hastily drying her eyes, she raised them to his, all bright and shining, and pathetic as the eyes of a little child in trouble. "Do you think it shows much now?" she asked.

Enrico was no lady's man, he neither perjured himself to please her nor evaded the question by a compliment, as many would have done. He looked gravely into those dark, gray depths, and critically at the wet lashes fringing them.

"It does rather," he said; "but we need not go back yet, they are still dancing."

"How sad the music sounds!" she said, with a sigh; "and yet it is a waltz I used to be so fond of. It seems as if those hateful words had taken the sweetness out of everything."

"Don't think of them!" exclaimed Enrico. "After all, you know it is but the way of the world. People would be dull if they did not invent little scandals of this kind. Carlo has done an altogether unprecedented thing, has actually loved his sister better than himself; but the world can't look into his heart, and naturally, after its invariable custom, credits him with low motives."

"It is just that which makes it so hard," said Francesca. "I didn't think they could have been so cruel; people, too, who must really have known him. How can they--how can they think such things? All his life gives the lie to it!"

There was a silence; the music rang out more distinctly; it seemed to say to Francesca: "After all, 'tis a hollow kind of merriment, but we are bound to go on. The fiddler is longing to get home to his dying wife, but he must play on to the end! And the dancers have aching hearts, but they must dance, dance and be merry. This is pleasure, you know, the world's pleasure!"

"You see," said Enrico, "the world has always been very kind to you, and so you have been deceived. People naturally make much of you, and that, of course, is pleasant."

"I don't think I can ever enjoy anything again," said Francesca, with the firm conviction of two-and-twenty that the particular cloud in its sky is going to prove more powerful than the sun.

But there was, nevertheless, some truth in her remark. She would enjoy again, but never in the same way; she would enjoy as a woman, but never again as a happily-ignorant girl.

"Everything seems hollow and unreal," she went on; "I have believed in it all so much!"

"You must not let me convert you to my creed," said Enrico, with a smile, "or how could I ever face Carlo? It is an odd coincidence that while you, through this business, get your first glimpse behind the world's scenes, and are disillusioned, I, in watching you and Carlo, have felt almost ready to throw over my pet theory of universal egoism."

"What arguments you and Carlo used to have in the old days," said Francesca, recovering herself, and feeling much cheered by his words. Then, with a little smile, she added, "I have been talking just like a horrid old woman we used to know in England. I wished her a merry Christmas one day, and she shook her head and looked so glum as she grumbled out, '_Merry_ Christmas indeed! there's no merriment in this world.' I do hope I shan't grow like her."

Enrico laughed.

"I shall tell Carlo that story when next I write. You will not allow me to send any message from you I suppose?"

"No, I can't do that," she sighed; "he knows I can't. But oh, Enrico, it is such comfort to know that you write to him. Write often--promise to write often."

Once again they talked over all the news in Carlo's letters, then, leaving the flowery retreat, made their way back to the crowded rooms. Francesca was speedily claimed by her next partner, and Enrico leant meditatively against the wall, watching the gay scene, and musing over that pathetic complaint which the girl had made to him, "They have taken the sweetness out of everything."

Years after, if any one had asked him what was the most touching sight he had ever seen, there would have risen in his mind a picture of that gayly-lighted ballroom, and of Francesca's sweet, sad face, upon which, spite of all her efforts, there yet lingered the traces of tears. Again and again she was whirled past him, her feet flew over the ground, but her face always bore the same expression, and he knew well that it was only a sense of duty which kept her up, and that she danced with a sore heart.