"Don't speak of it any more, my darling," he entreated, "you will make yourself ill."
"Yes, I was ill, Frank, for a whole year," she said. "It was a fearful time; I could not forgive my mother. From that moment the gulf arose which parts us to-day, and nothing can bridge it over. I was so horribly lonely, Frank, before I found you. But the villa?--Yes, it belongs to me; papa destined it for me when he built it. I have had some very pleasant days with him there, but now the very thought of it is dreadful to me. It is empty and deserted. I have never been there since. It is so horrible to find a person whom one has so honored and loved--to find him so--"
"Forgive me, Gertrude," he said, gently.
"You could not know, Frank. No one knows it but ourselves." And as if to turn his thoughts to something else she continued hurriedly, "Thank you so much, love, for that lovely poem, 'Thou art unspeakably beloved.'"
And she stroked his hand and pressed it to her lips.
"My poor little Gertrude!"
They stood thus together for awhile wrapped about with the sweet atmosphere of spring.
"A thunder-shower is coming up," he said at length; and she freed herself from his arms and left the room. Frank could hear her going softly about the corridor here and there, shutting the doors and windows, and jingling her keys. She was looking to see if everything was in order for the night.
He put his hand to his forehead and tried to recall who had spoken to him of the villa. He passed on into his lighted room as if he could think better there. After awhile the young wife came back, with her key-basket on her arm. The sweet face was lifted up to him.
"Frank," said she, "what did the agent want of you to-day?"