LITMIR.BIZ

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and stiff and old-fashioned than it might seem from this description. There were a good many books on the tables, chiefly French novels, as yellow as the hangings; and there were writing materials and a couple of newspapers and two or three open notes. A small wood fire burned in a deep, low fireplace adorned with marble and gilt brass.

      Matilde Macomer sat, leaning back, upon a little sofa which stood across a corner of the room far from the fire. One hand lay idly in her lap, the other, as she stretched out her arm, lay upon the back of the sofa, and her head with its thick, brown hair was bent down. She had fixed her eyes upon a point of the carpet and had not moved from her position for a long time. The folds of her black gown made graceful lines from her knees to her feet, and her imposing figure was thrown into strong relief against the yellow background as she leaned to the corner, one foot just touching the floor.

      Bosio sat at a distance from her, on a low chair, his elbows on his knees, staring at the fire. Neither had spoken for several minutes. Matilde broke the silence first, her eyes still fixed on the carpet.

      "You must marry Veronica," she said slowly; "nothing else can save us."

      It was clear that the idea was not new to Bosio, for he showed no surprise. But he turned deliberately and looked at the countess before he answered her. There were unusual lines in his quiet face—lines of great distress and perplexity.

      "It is a crime," he said in a low voice.

      Matilda raised her eyes, with an almost imperceptible movement of the shoulders.

      "Murder is a crime," she answered simply. Then Bosio started violently and turned very white, almost rising from his seat.

      "Murder?" he cried; "what do you mean?"

      Matilde's smooth red lips smiled.

      "I merely mentioned it as an instance of a crime," she said, without any change of tone. "You said it would be a crime for you to marry Veronica. It did not strike me that it could be called by that name. Crimes are murder, stealing, forgery—such things. Who would say that it was criminal for Bosio Macomer to marry Veronica Serra? There is no reason against it. I daresay that many people wonder why you have not married her already, and that many others suppose that you will before long. You are young, you have never been married, you have a very good name and a small fortune of your own."

      "Take it, then!" exclaimed Bosio, impulsively. "You shall have it all to-morrow—everything I possess. God knows, I am ready to give you all I have. Take it. I can live somehow. What do I care? I have given you my life—what is a little money? But do not ask me to marry her, your niece, here, under your very roof. I am not a saint, but I cannot do that!"

      "No," answered the countess, "we are not saints, you and I, it is true. For my part, I make no pretences. But the trouble is desperate, Bosio. I do not know what to do. It is desperate!" she repeated with sudden energy. "Desperate, I tell you!"

      "I suppose that all I have would be of no use, then?" asked Bosio, disheartened.

      "It would pay the interest for a few months longer. That would be all.

       Then we should be where we are now, or shall be in three weeks."

      "Throw yourself upon her mercy. Ask her to forgive you and to lend you money," suggested Bosio. "She is kind—she will do it, when she knows the truth."

      "I had thought of that," answered Matilde. "But, in the first place, you do not know her. Secondly, you forget Cardinal Campodonico."

      "Since he has left the management of her fortune in Gregorio's hands, he will not begin to ask questions at this point. Besides, the guardianship is at an end—"

      "The estate has not been made over. He will insist upon seeing the accounts—that is no matter, for they will bear his inspection well enough. Squarci is clever! But Veronica sees him. She would tell him of our trouble, if we went to her. If not, she would certainly tell Bianca Corleone, who is his niece. If he suspected anything, let alone knowing the truth, that would be the end of everything. It would be better for us to escape before the crash—if we could. It comes to that—unless you will help us."

      "By marrying Veronica?" asked Bosio, with a bitterness not natural to him.

      "I see no other way. The cardinal could see the accounts. You could be married, and the fortune could be made over to you. She would never know, nor ask questions. You could set our affairs straight, and still be the richest man in Naples or Sicily. It would all be over. It would be peace—at last, at last!" she repeated, with a sudden change of tone that ended in a deep-drawn sigh of anticipated relief. "You do not know half there is to tell," she continued, speaking rapidly after a moment's pause. "We are ruined, and worse than ruined. We have been, for years. Gregorio got himself into that horrible speculation years and years ago, though I knew nothing about it. While Veronica was a minor, he helped himself, as he could—with her money. It was easy, for he controlled everything. But now he can do nothing without her signature. Squarci said so last week. He cannot sell a bit of land, a stick of timber, anything, without her name. And we are ruined, Bosio. This house is mortgaged, and the mortgage expires on the first of January, in three weeks. We have nothing left—nothing but the hope of Veronica's charity—or the hope that you will marry her and save us from starvation and disgrace. I got her to sign the will. There was—"

      The countess checked herself and stopped short, turning an emerald ring which she wore. She was pale.

      "There was what?" asked Bosio, in an unsteady tone.

      "There was just the bare possibility that she might die before January," said Matilde, almost in a whisper. "People die young sometimes, you know—very young. It pleases Providence to do strange things. Of course it would be most dreadful, if she were to die, would it not? It would be lonely in the house, without her. It seems to me that I should see her at night, in the dark corners, when I should be alone. Ugh!"

      Matilde Macomer shivered suddenly, and then stared at Bosio with frightened eyes. He glanced at her nervously.

      "I am afraid of you," he said.

      "Of me?" Her presence of mind returned. "What an idea! just because I suggested that poor little Veronica might catch a cold or a fever in this horrible weather and might die of the one or the other? And just because I am fond of her, and said that I should be afraid of seeing her in the dark! Heaven give her a hundred years of life! Why should we talk of such sad things?"

      "It is certainly not I who wish to talk of them, or think of them," answered Bosio, thoughtfully, and turning once more to the fire. "You are overwrought, Matilde—you are unhappy, afraid of the future—what shall I say? Sometimes you speak in a strange way."

      "Is it any wonder? The case is desperate, and I am desperate, too—"

      "Do not say it—"

      "Then say that you will marry Veronica, and save us all, and bring peace into the house—for my sake, Bosio—for me!"

      She leaned forward, and her hands met upon her knee in something like a gesture of supplication, while she sought his eyes.

      "For your sake," repeated Bosio, dreamily. "For your sake? But you ask the impossible, Matilde. Besides, she would not marry me. She would laugh at the idea. And then—for you and me—it is horrible! You have no right to ask it."

      "No right? Ah, Bosio! Have I not the right to ask anything of you, after all these years?"

      "Anything—but not that! Your niece—under your roof! No—no—no! I cannot, even if she would consent."

      "Not even—" Matilda's splendid eyes, so cruelly close together, fastened themselves upon the weak man's face, and she frowned.

      "Not even if you thought it would be much better for her?" she asked very slowly, completing the sentence.

      Again he started and shrank from her.

      "Just God!" he exclaimed under his breath. "That a woman should have such thoughts!" Then he turned upon her with an instinctive revival of manhood and honour. "You

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