"Yes, very pretty," he said, moodily. "The first thing she would do would be to call a policeman and get me locked up as a raging lunatic. And what would Linn say to me about such interference when he came to hear of it? No, I must leave them to manage their own affairs, however they may turn out; the only thing I should like in the meantime would be for Nina to see Linn before she goes. That's all; and that I think I could manage."

"How, Maurice?"

"Well, there is simply nothing she wouldn't do for Linn's sake," he made answer; "and if I were to tell her I thought it would greatly help his recovery if he were to know that she was well, that she was here in London and ready to be friends with him and looking forward to his getting better, then I am pretty sure she would remain for that little time at least, and do anything we asked of her. Of course it would not do for them to meet just now—Linn is too weak to stand any excitement—and he will be so for some time to come; still, I think Nina would wait that time if we told her she could be of help. Then once these two have seen each other and spoken, let them take the management of their own affairs. Why, good gracious me!" he exclaimed, in lighter tones, "haven't you and I got our own affairs to manage, too? I have just been drawing up a code of regulations for the better governing of a wife!"

"Oh, indeed!" said Francie.

"Yes, indeed," said he, firmly. "I am a believer in the good old robust virtues that have made England what she is—or rather, what she has been. I'm not a sentimentalist. If the sentimentalists and the theorists and the faddists go on as they are doing, they'll soon leave us without any England at all; England will be moralized away to nothing; there will only be her name and her literature left to remind the world that she once existed. The equal rights of women—that's one of their fads. The equal rights of women! Bosh! Women ought to be very proud and grateful that they are allowed to live at all! However, that is a general principle; the particular application of it is that a man should be master in his own house, and that his wife's first and paramount duty is to obey him—"

"You shouldn't frighten me too soon, Maurice," she said—but she did not appear to be terribly scared.

"And I mean to begin as I mean to end," said he, ominously, as they were about to cross the street on their way back. "I am not going to marry a wife who will have all her interests out of doors. I will not allow it. A woman, madam, should attend to her own house and her own husband, and not spend her time in gadding about hospitals and sick-wards and making friends and companions of nurses."

Francie laughed at him.

"Why, Maurice," said she, as they were about to enter, "you yourself are the very best nurse I ever saw!"

But it was not in this mood that Mangan received Miss Burgoyne when she called that afternoon to make inquiries. She and her brother were shown to the room up-stairs, and thither Mangan followed them. He was very polite and cold and courteous; told her that Lionel was getting on very well; that the fever was subsiding, and that he was quite sensible again, though very weak; and said he hoped his complete recovery was now only a question of time. But when the young lady—with more hesitation than she usually displayed—preferred a request that she might be allowed to see Mr. Moore, Maurice met that by a gently decisive negative.

"He is not to be disturbed in any way. Perfect rest is what the doctors ordain. He has been left a wreck, but his fine constitution will pull him through; in the meantime we have to be most careful."

She was silent and thoughtful for a minute.

"I can't see him?"

"I think not—it would be most unwise. You would not wish to do anything inconsiderate."

"Oh, certainly not. May I write to him, then?" she asked.

"It will be some time before he can attend to any letters. You have no idea how weak he is. We want him to remain in perfect rest and quiet."

"This is Thursday," she said. "Supposing everything goes well, and I called on Tuesday next, could I see him then?"

"By that time it would be easier to say," he answered, with diplomatic ingenuity. "I should think it very likely."

"It will be a long time before he can come back to the theatre?" she asked again.

"There is no doubt about that."

"But his voice will be all right when he gets well?"

"Dr. Whitsen seems to think so."

She stood undecided for a moment; then she said,

"Well, I won't write until you give me leave. I don't mind your seeing the letter, when I do. In the meantime, will you tell Lionel how awfully glad I am that he is going on well, and that we shall all be glad to have him back at the theatre?"

"I will give him the message."

"Thanks—good-bye." And therewith Miss Burgoyne and her brother Jim withdrew.

But if Maurice set his face against that young lady being allowed to see Lionel in his present exhausted condition, it was quite otherwise with his notions about Nina. He talked to the three doctors, and to Mrs. Moore, and to Francie—to Francie most of all; and he maintained that, so far from such a meeting causing any mental disturbance, the knowledge that Nina was in London, was close by, would only be a source of joy and placid congratulation and peace. They yielded at last, and the experiment was to be tried on the Saturday morning about eleven. Nina was told. She trembled a little, but was ready to do whatever was required of her.

"Well, now," said Maurice to her, when she came up that morning (he noticed that she was dressed with extreme neatness and grace, and also that she seemed pale and careworn, though her beautiful dark eyes had lost none of their soft lustre), "we mustn't startle him. We must lead up to his seeing you. I wonder whether your playing those Neapolitan airs may not have left some impression on his brain?—they might sound familiar?"

At once Nina went to the piano and silently opened it.

"I will go and talk to him," he whispered. "Just you play a little, and we'll see."

Mangan went into the next room and began to say a few casual words, in a careless kind of way, but all the time keeping watchful and furtive observation of his friend's face. And even as he spoke there came another sound—soft and low and distant—that seemed to say, "A la fenesta affaciate—nennela de stu core—io t'aggio addo che spasemì, ma spasemo d'amore—e cchiù non trovo requia, nennella mia, ppe te!—"

"Maurice!" said Lionel, with staring eyes. "What is that? Who is there?"

"Don't you know, Linn?" his friend said, tranquilly. "She has been here all through your illness—she has played those airs for you—"

"Nina? Nina herself?" Lionel exclaimed, but in a low voice.

"Yes. If you like I will bring her in to see you. She has been awfully good. I thought it would please you to know she was here. Now be quite quiet, and she will come in and speak to you for a minute—for just a minute, you know."

He went and asked Nina to go into the room, but he did not accompany her; he remained without. Nina went gently forward to the bedside.

"Leo, I—I am glad you are getting on so well," she said, with admirable self-possession; it was only her lips that were tremulous.

As for him, he looked at her in silence, and tears rolled down his cheek—he was so nerveless. Then he said, in his weak voice,

"Nina, have you forgiven me?"

"What have I to forgive, Leo?" she made answer; and she took his hand for a moment. "Get well—it is the prayer of many friends. And if you wish to see me again before I go, then I will come—"

"Before you go?" he managed to say. "You are going away again, Nina?"

His eyes were more piteous than his speech; she met that look—and her resolution faltered.

"At least," she said, "I will not go until you are well—no. When you wish for me, I will come to see you. We are still friends as of old, Leo, are we not? Now I must not remain. I will say good-bye for the present."

"When are you coming back, Nina?" he said, still with those pleading eyes.

"When you wish, Leo."

"This afternoon?"

"This afternoon, if you wish."

She pressed his hand and left. Her determined self-possession had carried her bravely so far; there had hardly been a trace of emotion. But when she went outside—when the strain was taken off—it may have been otherwise; at all events, when, with bowed and averted head, she crossed the sitting-room and betook herself to the empty chamber above, no one dreamed of following her—until Francie, some little time thereafter, went quietly up-stairs and tapped at the door and entered. She found Nina stretched at full length on the sofa, her head buried in the cushion, sobbing as if her heart would break. Perhaps she was thinking of the approaching farewell.

TOWARDS THE DAWN.

On the Tuesday about midday, according to her promise, Miss Burgoyne called and again preferred her request. And, short of a downright lie, Mangan saw no way of refusing her.

"At the same time," he said, in the cold manner which he unconsciously adopted towards this young lady, "you must remember he is far from strong yet; and I hope you have nothing to say to him that would cause agitation, or even involve his speaking much. His voice has to be taken care of, as well as his general condition."

"Oh, you may trust me for that," said she, with decision. "Do you think I don't know how important that is?"

Miss Burgoyne went into the room. Lionel was still in bed, but propped up in a sitting posture; and to keep his arms and shoulders warm he had donned a gorgeous smoking-jacket, the fantastic colors of which were hardly in keeping with his character as invalid. He knew of her arrival, and had laid aside the paper he had been reading.

"I am so glad to know you are getting on so satisfactorily," said Miss Burgoyne, in her most pleasant way. "And they tell me your voice will be all right too. Of course you must exercise great caution; it will be some time before you can begin your vocalises again."

"How is Doyle doing?" he asked, in a fairly clear voice.

"Oh, pretty well," said she, but in rather a dissatisfied fashion. "It is difficult to say what it is that is wanting—he looks well, acts well, sings well—a very good performance altogether—and yet—it is respectable, and nothing more. He really has a good voice, as you know, and thoroughly well trained; but it seems to me as if there were in his singing everything but the one thing—everything but the thrill that makes your breath stop at times. However," added Miss Burgoyne, out of her complaisance, "the public will wait a long time before they find any one to sing 'The Starry Night' as you sang it, and as I hope you'll be singing it again before long."

She was silent for a second or two; she seemed to have something to say, and yet to hesitate about saying it.

"I hear you are going to Italy when you are strong enough to travel?" she observed, at last.

"That is what they advise."

"You will be away for some time?"

"I suppose so."

And again she sat silent for a little while, pulling at the fringe of her rose-lined sun-shade.

"Well, Lionel," she said, at length, with downcast eyes, "there is something I have been thinking about for a long time back, and if you are going away very soon, and perhaps for a considerable while, I ought to tell you. It may be a relief to you as well as to me; indeed, I think it will; if I had imagined what I have to say would vex you in any way, you may be sure I wouldn't come at such a time as this. But to be frank—that engagement—do you think we entered upon it with any kind of wisdom, or with any fair prospect of happiness? Now if I trouble you or hurt your feelings in any way, you can stop me with a single word," she interposed, and she ventured to look up a little and to address him more directly. "The truth is, I was flattered by such a proposal—naturally—and rather lost my head, perhaps, when I ought to have asked myself what was the true state of our feelings towards each other. Of course, it was I who was in the wrong; I ought to have considered. And I must say you have behaved most honorably throughout; you never showed the least sign of a wish to break the engagement, even when we had our little quarrels, and you may have received some provocation. But after all, Lionel, I think you must admit that our relations have not been quite—quite—what you might expect between two people looking forward to spending their lives together."

She paused here—perhaps to give him an opportunity of signifying his assent. But he refused to do that. He uttered not a word. It was for her to say what was in her mind—if she wished to be released.

"I am quite sure that even now, even after what I have just told you," she continued, "you would be willing to keep your word. But—but would it be wise? Just think. Esteem and regard and respect there would always be between us, I hope; but—but is that enough? Of course you may tell me that as you are willing to fulfil your part of the engagement, so I should be on my side; and I don't say that I am not; if you challenged me and could convince me that your happiness depended on it, you would see whether I would draw back. But you have heard me so far without a word of protest. I have not wounded you. Perhaps you will be as glad to be free as I shall be—I don't mean glad, Lionel," she hastily put in, "except in the sense of being free from an obligation that might prove disastrous to both of us. Now, Lionel, what do you say? You see I have been quite candid; and I hope you won't think I have spoken out of any unkindness or ill-feeling."

He answered her at last,

"I agree with every word you have said."

A quick flush swept across Miss Burgoyne's forehead; but probably he could not have told what that meant, even if he had been looking; and he was not.

"I hope you won't think me unkind," she repeated. "I am sure it will be better for both of us to have that tie broken. If I had not thought that it would be as grateful to you as to me to be released, be sure I would not have come and spoken to you while you were lying on a sick-bed. Now, I promised Mr. Mangan not to talk too much nor to agitate you," said she, as she rose, and smoothed her sun-shade, and made ready to depart. "I hope you will get strong and well very soon; and that you will come back to the New Theatre with your voice as splendid as ever." But still she lingered a little. She felt that her immediate departure might seem too abrupt; it would look as if she had secured the object of her visit, and was therefore ready to run away at once. So she chatted a little further, and looked at the photographs on the wall; and again she hoped he would be well soon and back at the theatre. At last she said, "Well, good-bye." Gave him her gloved hand for a second; then she went out and was joined by her brother. Mangan saw them both down-stairs, and returned to Lionel's room.

"Had her ladyship any important communication to make?" he asked, in his careless way.

"She proposed that our engagement should be broken off—and I consented," said Lionel, simply.

Mangan, who was going to the window, suddenly stood stock-still and stared, as if he had not heard aright.

"And it is broken off?" he exclaimed.

"Yes."

There was a dead silence. Presently Maurice said,

"Well, that is the best piece of news I have received for many a day—for you don't seem heartbroken, Linn. And now—have you any plans?—perhaps you have hardly had time?—"

He was looking at Lionel—wondering whether the same idea was in both their heads—and yet afraid to speak.

"Maurice," Lionel said, presently, with some hesitation, "tell me—could I ask Nina—look at me—such a wreck—could I ask her to become my wife? It's about Capri I am thinking—we could go together there, when I am a bit stronger—"

There was a flash of satisfaction in the deep-set, friendly gray eyes.

"This is what I expected, Linn. Well, put the question to herself—and the sooner the better!"

"Yes, but—" Lionel said, as if afraid.

"Oh, I know," Maurice said, confidently. "Tell Nina that you are not yet quite recovered—that you have need of her care—and she will go to the world's end with you. Only you must get married first, for the sake of appearances."

"What will she say, Maurice?" he asked again, as if there were some curious doubt, or perhaps merely timidity, in his mind.

"I think I know, but I am not going to tell," his friend answered, lightly. "I am off up-stairs now. I will send Nina down; but without a word of warning. You'll have to lead up to it yourself—and good-luck to you, my boy!" And therewith Maurice departed to seek out Nina in the chamber above; and as he went up the stairs he was saying to himself, "Well, well; and so Miss Burgoyne did that of her own free will? I may have done the young woman some injustice. Perhaps she is not so selfish and hard after all. Wish I had been more civil to her."

Meanwhile Miss Burgoyne and her brother were walking in the direction of Regent Street.

"Now, Jim," she said, with almost a gay air, "I have just completed a most delicate and difficult negotiation, and I feel quite exhausted. You must take me into a restaurant and give me the very nicest and neatest bit of luncheon you can possibly devise—all pretty little trifles, for we mustn't interfere with dinner; and I am going to see how you can do it—"

"Well, but, Katie," he said, frowning, "where do you suppose—"

"Oh, don't he stupid!" she exclaimed, slipping her purse into his hand. "I am going to judge of your savoir faire; I will see whether you get a nice table; whether you order the proper things; whether you command sufficient attention—"

"I was never taught to bully waiters," said he.

"To bully waiters!—is that your notion of savoir faire?" she answered, lightly. "My dear Jim, the bullying of a waiter is the most obvious and outward sign of the ingrained, incurable cad. No, no. That is what I do not expect of you, Jim. And I am going to leave the whole affair in your hands; for while you are ordering for me a most elegant little luncheon, I have an extremely important letter to send off."

So it was that when brother and sister were seated at a small table on the ground-floor of a well-known Regent Street restaurant, Miss Burgoyne had writing materials brought her, and she wrote her letter while Jim was in shy confabulation with the waiter. It was not a lengthened epistle; it ran so:

She folded and enclosed and addressed the letter; but she did not give it to the waiter to post. It was of too great moment for that. She put it in her pocket; she would herself see it safely despatched.

Well, for a boy, Jim had not done so badly; though, to be sure, his sister did not seem to pay much attention to these delicacies. Her brain was too busy. As she trifled with this thing or that, or sipped a little wine, she said,

"Jim, I know what the dream of your life is—it's to go to a big pheasant-shoot."

"Oh, is it?" he said, with the scorn born of superior knowledge. "Not much. I've tried my hand at pheasants. I know what they are. It's all very well for those fellows in the papers to talk about the easy shooting—the slaughter—the tame birds—and all that bosh; fellows who couldn't hit a stuffed cockatoo at twenty yards. No, thanks; I know what pheasants are—the beasts!"

"Well, what kind of shooting would you really like?" said this indulgent sister.

"I'll tell you," he said, with his face brightening. "I should like to have the run of a good rabbit-warren, and to be allowed to wander about entirely by myself, with a gun and a spaniel. No keeper looking on and worrying and criticising—that's my idea."

"All right," said she, "I think I can promise you that."

"You?" he said, looking at her, and wondering if she had gone out of her wits.

"Yes," she answered, sweetly. "Don't you think there will be plenty of rabbits about a place like Petmansworth?"

"And what then?"

"Well, I'm going to marry Sir Percival Miles," said Miss Kate, with much serene complacency.

A REUNION.

Here is a long balcony, shaded by pillared arches, the windows hung with loose blinds of reeds in gray and scarlet. If you adventure out into the hot sunlight, you may look away down the steep and rugged hill, where there are groups of flat-roofed, white houses dotted here and there among the dark palms and olives and arbored vines; and then your eyes naturally turn to the vast extent of shimmering blue sea, with the faint outline of the Italian coast and the peaked Vesuvius beyond. But inside, in the spacious, rather bare rooms, it is cooler; and in one of these, at the farther end, stands a young man in front of a piano, striking a chord from time to time, and exercising a voice that does not seem to have lost much of its timbre; while there is an exceedingly pretty, gentle-eyed, rather foreign-looking young lady engaged in putting flowers on the central table, which is neatly and primly laid out for four.

"Come, Leo," she says, "is it not enough? You are in too great a hurry, I believe. Are you jealous of Mr. Doyle? Do you wish to go back at once? No, no; we must get Mr. Mangan and his bride to make a long stay, before we go over with them to the big towns on the mainland. Will you go out and see if the Risposta is visible yet."

"What splendid weather for Maurice and Francie, isn't it, Ntoniella?" said he (for there are other pet names besides the familiar Nina for any one called Antonia). "I wish we could have had our wedding-day along with theirs. Well, at least we will have our honeymoon trip along with them; and we shall have to be their guides, you know, in Venice and Rome and Florence, for neither of them knows much Italian."

"Yes, but, Leo," said Nina, who was still busy with her flowers, "when we go back with them to Naples, you really must speak properly. It is too bad—the dialect—it is not necessary; you can speak well if you wish. It was only to make fun of Sabetta that you began, now it is always."

He only laughed at her grave remonstrance.

"Oh, don't you preach at me, Ntoniella!" he said, in the very language she was deprecating. "There are lots of things I can say to you that sound nicer that way."

He turned from the piano at last and took up an English newspaper that he had previously opened.

"Ntoniè, tell me, did you read all the news this morning?"

"No—a little," Nina answered, snipping off the redundant stalks of the grapes.

"You did not see the announcement about—about Miss Cunyngham?"

At the mention of this name, Nina looked up quickly, and there was some color in the pale, clear complexion.

"No. What is it, Leo?"

"I thought you might have seen that, at all events," he said, lightly. "Well, I will read it to you. 'A marriage has been arranged and will shortly take place between Lord Rockminster, eldest son of the Earl of Fareborough, and Miss Honnor Cunyngham, daughter of the late Sir George Cunyngham, and sister of Sir Hugh Cunyngham, of the Braes, Perthshire, and Aivron Lodge, Campden Hill.' I should like to have sent them a little wedding-present," he went on, absently, "for both of them have been very kind to me; but I am grown penurious in my old age; I suppose we shall have to consider every farthing for many a day to come."

"Leo, why will you not take any of my money?" Nina exclaimed, but with shy and downcast face.

"Your money!" he said, laughing. "You talk as if you were a Russian princess, Ntoniella!"

He drew aside the reeded blind of one of the windows and went out into the soft air; both land and sea—that beautiful stretch of shining blue—seemed quivering in the heat and abundant sunlight of June.

"Nina, Nina!" he called, "you must make haste; the Risposta will soon be coming near, and we must be down in town to welcome Maurice and Francie when they come ashore."

In a second or two she was ready, and he also.

"There are so many things I shall have to tell Maurice," he said, just as they were about to leave the house. "But do you think I shall be able to tell him, Ntoniella? No. He must guess. What you have been to me, what you are to me, how can I tell him or any one?"

He took both her hands in his and looked long and lovingly into her upturned face.

"Ntoniè, tu si state a sciorta mia!" he said, meaning thereby that good-fortune had befallen him at last. It was a pretty speech, and Nina, with her beautiful dark eyes fixed on his, answered him in the same dialect, and almost in the same terms, if in a lower voice:

"E a sciorta mia si tu!"

THE END.