Norman Mann was in earnest truly, forcible also, for he opened his mouth
to let out a very expressive word as Eric left the room. It did him good
seemingly, for he strode up and down more quietly. At last he sat down
and began to talk with himself. "Norman Mann, you've got to do it all
alone," he said. "Albert and Edith and Aunt Martha are too vexed and
shocked to do the little rebel any good. Ric, oh, dear, Ric is a silly
boy, God bless him, and here I am doomed to make that child hate me, and
with no possible authority over her, or power, for that matter, trying
to keep her from something terribly wild. If they don't look out, she
will break loose. I know her well, and there's strong character under
this storm a-top, if only some one could get at it. Damn it." Norman
grew forcible again. "Why can't I keep my silly eyes away from her, and
go off with the fellows. You see," continued Norman, still addressing
his patient double, "she is a rebel, and--pshaw, I dare say it is half
my fancy, but I hate that long moustached officer. I wish he would be
summoned to the front and be shot. O, I forgot, there's no war. Well,
then, I wish he would fall in love with any body but Mae. It must be
late. Ric didn't leave that little party very early, I'm sure, but I
can't sleep. I'll get down my Sismondi and read awhile. I wonder if that
child is feeling badly now. I half believe she is--but here's my book."

Yes, Mae was feeling badly, heart-brokenly, all alone in her room. After
a long, harrowing talk with Mrs. Jerrold, at the close of which she
had received commands never to go out alone in Rome, because it wasn't
proper, she had been allowed to depart for her own room. Here she closed
the door leading into Mrs. Jerrold's and Edith's apartment, and opened
her window wide, and held her head out in the night air--the poisonous
Roman air. The street was very quiet. Now and then some late wayfarer
passed under the light at the corner, but Mae had, on the whole, a