to the very door, and behind upon the sunny mountain-side, planted
with American vines. If it belonged to him that was what he would do--
plant American vines, and when the years of yielding came, give a good
percentage on all the wine made and sold to the man who had tended the
vineyard.

The peasant's love of money awoke. He only let the cottage to Hermione
year by year, and had no contract with her extending beyond a twelve-
months' lease. Before Artois left Marechiaro the tender treachery was
arranged. When the year's lease was up, the contadino wrote to her
declining to renew it. She answered, protesting, offering more money.
But it was all in vain. The man replied that he had already let the
cottage and the land around it to a grower of vines for a long term of
years, and that he was getting double the annual price she offered.

Hermione was indignant and bitterly distressed. When this letter
reached her she was at Fiesole with Vere in a villa which she had
taken. She would probably have started at once for Sicily; but Vere
was just then ill with some infantile complaint, and could not be
left. Artois, who was in Rome, and had received from her the news of
this carefully arranged disaster, offered to go to Sicily on her
behalf--and actually went. He returned to tell her that the house of
the priest was already occupied by contadini, and all the land up to
the very door in process of being dug up and planted with vines. It
was useless to make any further offer. The thing was done.

Hermione said nothing, but Artois saw in her eyes how keenly she was
suffering, and turned his own eyes away. He was only trying to
preserve her from greater unhappiness, the agony of ever finding out
the truth; but he felt guilty at that moment, and as if he had been