then the silence became the silence of death; the sob of the daughter became the desolate cry of the orphan; the cry which rang in Gabriel's ears, and wrung

his heart, as he went into the air, where the stars were paling and the dawn coming in the east.

Lady Melton was buried; laid by her husband and children, and all things returned to their usual course at the villa. Gabriel waited, with a chill apprehension, for the next step, which he knew must come the departure to England of the two, in whom every interest was bound up; and, meanwhile day by day, how precious became the hours he spent with them! the readings, resumed by Gertrude in hopes of stilling that new sharp pain of orphan

hood; the walks to well-beloved haunts, each consecrated by memories of that sweet smile, that gentle voice which had passed away; and the evening hour of soothing, if mournful talk, when the cloud of sorrow on her brow gave way to peace and serenity, under his quiet brotherly consolation. At last it camethe looked- for blow. The day was fixed, the arrangements made. The three friends were constantly together these last sad days. Gabriel, with his greater knowledge of business, was able to help them much in the melancholy task of breaking up the Italian establishment, and all the worrying minor details which were attendant; this was comforting to him, as were also the farewell visits to each favourite view, each summer evening haunt, though the sharp

paining thought would come that it was the last time he should look on them with her-perhaps never again would they two watch a sunset togetherperhaps never again would that sweet sympathizing look meet his, telling that the same feeling, the same love for all things beautiful, was in the heart of each.

William begged Gabriel to come to England, and obtain a curacy there, but he refused, for the present, at least; he would not run away from his post because it had become distasteful to him; he would stay and work manfully at that which lay before him, until he could be of more use elsewhere," and so I fear our farewell will be a long one," he said. There was another reason-he in Italy, Gertrude in England, he could think of her as the dream,

the romance of his life; were they both in England, he must see her sometimes, must ever renew the sufferings which might in absence become less acute. He did not wish to forget her, but he longed, he thirsted, for freedom from such suffering.

The day, the hour, came; the carriage was at the door, William making some final arrangement; and Gertrude and Gabriel were alone in those last moments before separation for an indefinite time; his heart sinking, sick, and chilled, at the blank and empty prospect of the years which were to come. Gertrude came a step nearer, and looking up in the fixed, stern face above her, she said, "Mr. Fairfield, William and I wish to thank you for your kindness to mamma. Oh, I don't know how to thank you! believe

me, will

you not? you were a great comfort to her, and to us too, always-" "It will be a comfort to me all my life to think so," he replied. And she went on, blushing and faltering,

"This is a seal she always wore-will you keep it for her sake ?-and for ours? We hope you will not forget us quite, but think of us sometimes, as we shall think our kindest, best Italian

of you, as

friend."

He strove and overcame. He did not follow the passionate impulse to pour out his love, his devotion, to tell her that not "sometimes," but always, he would think of her, adore and worship her-not "sometimes," but through all his life till death!

Calmly, almost coldly, he invoked all happiness and good for her, now and for