Then came the agony--a child
lost--a friend false.
"Camillo returned to us and told the tale. I felt my heart wither and grow
old. My mother was grieved in her heart for her son's sorrow--in her pride
for its kind and method. Fiora did not smile any more. Her step was no
longer bounding upon the floor and the stairs, and the year afterward she
married the Marchese Cicada.
"The next day, Camillo returned to the island. The abbess had not
returned, nor had any tidings been received. Only the gondola had been
found in the morning in its usual place. The days passed. A new abbess was
chosen. The church did not dare to curse the fugitive, for there was no
proof that she had willingly gone away. It might be supposed--it could not
be proved. Camillo hung in his chamber the unfinished portrait, and a
black veil shrouded it from chance and curious eyes. He did not seem
altered. He was still calm and grave--still cold and sweet in his general
intercourse.
"My friendship with him became more intimate. He saw that I was much
changed--for although pride can do much, the heart is stronger than the
head. But he had no suspicion of the truth. People who suffer intensely
often forget that there are other sufferers in the world, you know.
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