them. She sank back in her carriage with a great sigh.
The homeward streets led past the palace of the Della Rocca. She let the window down, and looked outward as she passed it. She saw a single casement alone lighted in the great black mass of frowning stone, with its machicolated walls and iron stanchions. It was above the entrance; she knew it was his favourite room; where his books were, and his old bronzes, and his favourite weapons.
Her eyes filled with tears again as she looked up at the solitary light. She felt for the little cluster of violets that she had fastened under the great emeralds in her bosom,—his hand had gathered them.
"If anyone had told me I would care!" she thought to herself.
The tears on her lashes stole slowly down, and dimmed the emeralds and refreshed the violets.
She was the most heartless creature in the world; the coldest and most self-engrossed of women, her friends and acquaintances were saying after her departure, in the drawing-rooms
