Hence it was that she spent all the time she possibly could out of doors.  Alone she had traversed the whole county, seeking permission to glance at the interior of any old house or building that promised archaeological interest, and by that means making some curious friendships.

Many people regarded the pretty young girl who made a study of old churches and old houses as somewhat eccentric.  Local antiquaries, however, stared at her in wonder when they found that she was possessed of knowledge far more profound than theirs, and that she could decipher old documents and read Latin inscriptions with ease.

She made few friends, preferring solitude and reflection to visiting and gossiping.  Hers was, indeed, a pathetic little figure, and the countryfolk used to stare at her in surprise and sigh as she passed through the various little hamlets and villages so regularly, the black collie bounding before her.

Quickly she had become known as “Miss Heyburn’s niece,” and the report having spread that she was “a bit eccentric, poor thing,” people soon ceased to wonder, and began to regard that pale, sad face with sympathy.  The whole country-side was wondering why such a pretty young lady had gone to live in the deadly dullness of Woodnewton, and what was the cause of that great sorrow written upon her countenance.

Her daily burden of bitter reflection was, indeed, hard to bear.  Her one thought, as she walked those miles of lonely rural byways, so bare and cheerless, was of Walter—­her Walter—­the man who, she knew, would have willingly given his very life for hers.  She had met her just punishment, and was now endeavouring to bear it bravely.  She had renounced his love for ever.

One afternoon, dark and rainy, in the gloom of early March, she was sitting at the old-fashioned and rather tuneless piano in the damp, unused “best room,” which was devoid of fire for economic reasons.  Her aunt was seated in the window busily crocheting, while she, with her white fingers running across the keys, raised her sweet contralto voice in that old-world Florentine song that for centuries has been sung by the populace in the streets of the city by the Arno: 

  In questa notte in sogno l’ho veduto
    Era vestito tutto di braccato,
    Le piume sul berretto di velluto
    Ed una spada d’oro aveva allato.

  E poi m’ha detto con un bel sorriso;
    Io no, non posso star da te diviso,
    Da te diviso non ci posso stare
    E torno per mai pin non ti lasciare.

Miss Heyburn sighed, and looked up from her work.  “Can’t you sing something in English, Gabrielle?  It would be much better,” she remarked in a snappy tone.

The girl’s mouth hardened slightly at the corners, and she closed the piano without replying.

“I don’t mean you to stop,” exclaimed the ascetic old lady.  “I only think that girls, instead of learning foreign songs, should be able to sing English ones properly.  Won’t you sing another?”