sleep with him. Oh, Leone, for pity's sake, what are you going to do?" She rose from the couch and looked into the pile. "Oh," she cried, "you have his powder-box there, his own little mug-everything, everything!"

"Hush, hush," he said, as he knotted the four corners securely; "hush, Tesoro, I have taken everything on purpose; I will lose my mind unless I can forget, and these things will forever remind me."

"Then let us give his little clothes to the poor; there is many a child suffering for them."

"Do you think I would ever see another child in what my son has worn? No, carissima, you shall have all my next magazine money to give to the poor, only do not hinder me now; I must forget

forget."

"You are certainly crazy," she said, "and I think you are cruel to take away his things you shall not do it —"

He had the pack on his shoulder by this time, and was leaving the room. Margaret hastily slipped on her boots, and followed him. He was not to be seen, but she could hear his echoing footsteps upon the stone floor of the corridor; yet he kept some distance ahead of her, and reaching the outer door she saw him making his way toward the ruins. She redoubled her steps and hurried after him. He stopped near a pile of brushwood. She supposed that he was going to throw the sheet and its contents down the bottomless well and ran as quickly as she could. She saw him stoop down and do something and then there was smoke and a crackling. He had set the bundle on fire!

"Oh! oh!" she cried, bounding to the spot, "what a dreadful thing to do! Oh! you have no right to do this; his things are mine as much as yours, oh, I shall have nothing left of my baby!" She tried to draw the pack toward her, but he had built a ring of dried twigs around it and the smoke was so thick it blinded her.

"Hush, Tesoro, cara mia," was all he said, as he threw on

the brushwood and watched the lapping flames grow bigger. "I must have everything destroyed, everything."

Just then the pile seemed to ignite all at once, a great flame shot upward and the sheet burst open and from out of it fell a tiny kid shoe, the first the child had ever worn, that Margaret had made herself and cross-stitched with blue silk. The little shoe fell at her feet, unperceived by Leone. She snatched it eagerly and holding it tightly to her heart fled away, back to the house and up to her own room and there, throwing herself once more upon the lounge, the tears that had been so long denied her, came at last, and she kissed the little shoe again and again as she sobbed aloud.

And Leone, over by the ruins, with a stony expression, stood watching his work of destruction. The corners of the sheet curled up and burned like paper to ashes, also the small garments, made with so much care. The rapacious flames next caught the wooden cart, that only two days ago the bambino had pulled after him, the rag doll, the toy kitten, a miniature brush and comb and a painted powder box-all went, until there was nothing more for the fire to consume. Then the flames died out and he looked at what was left, a charred, smouldering, blackened mass. He took a stick and stirred the débris. Something white caught his eye; he picked it up; what was it?

A wee, soft shoe, made of a glove, stitched in blue and kicked out at the toes; it was just a little charred on one side. How did it manage to escape the flames? He could not tell, the only thing left! For a moment the tears glistened in his eyes, but he dashed them away. With a quick, desperate gesture he pressed it to his lips and then thrust it in his bosom.

CHAPTER XXI

THE GLOOM OF THE WINTER

Forth from the wind-swept country of my heart,
Fly fast swift wings;

From thence the summers and their suns depart,
Here no bird sings.

The picture of "Springtime" was never finished.

MOULTON.

From the first Fauvel had been dissatisfied with the work. Carlotta had never been his ideal of the female figure, and Leone, after the death of the baby, kept a look of stony despondency that was "impossible" for "Springtime.

Leone shed no more tears, but Margaret could not cease weeping. There was not a trace of the little one left; whatever had escaped Leone's grasp when he made the funeral pyre of the child's effects, had been spirited away by him afterwards. The old gilded cradle was again relegated to the forgotten lumber room far off in another part of the castle, and all that remained to Margaret of her baby was one little shoe, which she kept hidden safely where he would never find it. Also her conscience troubled her. Had she been a good mother? she asked herself, had she loved her child as a mother should? Leone had openly accused her of lacking motherly love, and she had intuitively felt that the others agreed.

Oh, if she could have him back! She would take him proudly in her arms and let come who might she would say, "Yes, he is mine, my love, my own son!"

"You will injure your eyes," Fauvel said to her at last, then took her to his apartment and put some cooling drops into them. "Do not cry any more, ma chère. The little one never had a pang or a sorrow, he never had a sick day, he knew nothing but happiness, devoted care and love—'Amore.'

Love he was surrounded with, and 'Love' he was.

You have

yourself to think of and Leone, and if you care at all for me, stop the tears now, for I do not like to see your sweet face disfigured."

So Margaret dried her eyes and like Leone wept no more, but in her heart was continual self-reproach and sadness. And Fauvel, watching her closely, realized that some change must be made; she needed diversion and gaiety and he intended she should have both. She had stood the test he had prepared for her, the test of her love for Leone, a long severe trial, and she had come through the fire like pure gold.

This year he was going to Paris, Vienna, and home to Brussels; he had a full and busy winter planned; it would be six or seven months before he should be again in Italy and if he found them as devoted upon his return, then the welfare and future of the Belmontes should be his first consideration. But he said nothing of this to them, as he did not believe in talking until he was ready to act.

Nothing further could be learned about the men in the automobile. But Leone, thirsting for revenge, did not give up his idea of some day finding them, and went constantly to the village and other mountain hamlets, telling his story over, making inquiries and inciting the peasants to a hatred of automobiles. Also he was bent upon punishing the dwarf who he declared had been the evil genius in the destruction of his child.

Carlotta encouraged him in his wild vagaries. Shortly after the tragedy Giacinta left. Her sick brother had written begging her to return, so she parted from Margaret with kisses and tears, promising to return as soon as she could be spared.

Carlotta, after much reflection as to whether she would cancel her concert engagements and spend the winter between her father's humble home and the castle, in order to be near Belmonte, came to the conclusion that it would be the height of folly to lose so much good money! Belmonte would be there in the spring and she could cut her season short, if she became

impatient to see him; therefore she, too, departed, and lastly Fauvel.

After Leone and Margaret were left alone Rocca Serrata seemed indeed deserted; but Leone did his best to rouse and cheer Margaret, for he too suffered from conscience. He had been selfish in his monopoly of the little one, "enormously selfish," as Fauvel had said, and the latter had also told him that he had done a heartless, cruel thing in destroying all her baby's clothes and toys, and he took great care that she should never see the tiny shoe that the flames had spared. He was ashamed of his weakness in treasuring it, since he had deprived her of everything.

He endeavored to make up for his conduct by trying to entertain and amuse her, in order that she might forget.

The sound of battledore and shuttlecock was again heard in the corridor or great hall. Also he taught her to use the foil, as Fauvel had taught him until he had become an expert fencer. And when they were tired of violent exercise there were books and cards or driving to Fossato to see the Cinamettografo.* They were more like lovers again, as their differences over the child were the only things that had ever ruffled their affection, and now that the occasion of these was removed all was serene between them. There was but one dangerous subject and that was the dwarf. Margaret would not listen to the idea that his appearance the night before the child's death had anything to do with the tragedy; the creature had not been seen or heard of since, and Margaret changed the conversation as tactfully as she could whenever he was mentioned, as it only made them quarrel.

Every year Leone had found great pleasure in going down to the poderi** in the valley and offering his services to help in the vintage. He knew many of the farmers and vine-growers and it is quite customary in Italy for the upper classes to assist

*Motion pictures.

** Sort of farms.