various ways with due forethought and delicacy--and gave him as many
commissions as I possibly could without rousing his suspicion or
wounding his pride. For he possessed a strong attraction for me--we
had much the same tastes, we shared the same sympathies, in short, I
desired nothing better than his confidence and companionship.

In this world no one, however harmless, is allowed to continue
happy. Fate--or caprice--cannot endure to see us monotonously at
rest. Something perfectly trivial--a look, a word, a touch, and lo!
a long chain of old associations is broken asunder, and the peace we
deemed so deep and lasting in finally interrupted. This change came
to me, as surely as it comes to all. One day--how well I remember
it!--one sultry evening toward the end of May, 1881, I was in
Naples. I had passed the afternoon in my yacht, idly and slowly
sailing over the bay, availing myself of what little wind there was.
Guido's absence (he had gone to Rome on a visit of some weeks'
duration) rendered me somewhat of a solitary, and as my light craft
ran into harbor, I found myself in a pensive, half-uncertain mood,
which brought with it its own depression. The few sailors who manned
my vessel dispersed right and left as soon as they were landed--each
to his own favorite haunts of pleasure or dissipation--but I was in
no humor to be easily amused. Though I had plenty of acquaintance in
the city, I cared little for such entertainment as they could offer
me. As I strolled along through one of the principal streets,
considering whether or not I should return on foot to my own
dwelling on the heights, I heard a sound of singing, and perceived
in the distance a glimmer of white robes. It was the Month of Mary,
and I at once concluded that this must be an approaching Procession
of the Virgin. Half in idleness, half in curiosity, I stood still
and waited. The singing voices came nearer and nearer--I saw the