“—­and you think, looking at these cold words on the paper, that it was easy for me to do so.  It has not been so easy.  I pray God to bless you, and keep you brave and true and unselfish, and give you happiness in the success of your work.  And I ask a line from you in reply—­not sad, but something that I may look at from time to time, and that will make me believe you have plenty of interests and hopes in the world, and that you do not altogether regret that you and I met, and were friends, for a time.

  NATALIE.”

This was a strange thing:  she took another sheet of paper, and slowly and with a trembling hand wrote on it these words, “Your Wife.” That was all.  No doubt it was the signature she had hoped one day to use.  She regarded it long, and earnestly, and sadly, until, indeed, she could not see it for the tears that rose afresh into her eyes.  Then she tore up the piece of paper hastily, folded her letter and addressed it, without sealing the envelope, and carried it into the other room.

“Read it mother,” she said; and she turned to the window to conceal her tear-stained face.

The mother opened the letter and glanced at it.

“You forget, child,” she said.  “I know so little English.  Tell me what it is you have written.”

So she was forced to turn; and apparently, as she spoke, she was quite calm; but there was a darkness underneath her eyes, and there was in her look something of the worn, sad expression of her mother’s face.  Briefly and simply she repeated the substance of the letter, giving no reasons or justifications.  She seemed to take it for granted that her decision was unavoidable, and would be seen to be so by every one.

“Natalushka,” the mother said, looking anxiously at the troubled face, “do you know what you are about to do?  It is an act of expiation for something you have not committed.”

“Could I do otherwise?” she said.  “You, mother:  would you have me think of a marriage procured through my father’s death?  It is too horrible!”

The mother went to her, and took her two hands.

“My poor child, are you to have no happier life than I have had, after all?  When I used to see you, I used to say to myself, ’Ah, my little Natalushka will never know what has befallen me—­she will have a happy life!’ I could see you laughing as you walked in the gardens there.  You looked so pleased, so content, so bright and cheerful.  And now you also are to have a life of disappointment and sad memories—­”

“Oh, you must not talk like that, mother,” the girl said, hastily, in a low voice.  “Have I not you with me?  We shall always be together, shall we not?  And you know we shall not have time for brooding over what is past; we shall have much to do; we must make a pleasant small home somewhere.  Oh, there are many, many people far worse off in the world than we are.  So you must think of getting away from Naples, mother; and think of where you would like to live, and where I should be most likely to be able to earn a little.  The years will teach us to forget—­and—­and—­And now you know why I do not wish to go back to England.”