silent soothing sense of nearness and love; and Tito could not even seek to press his lips to hers, because that would be change.
“Tito,” she said at last, “it has been altogether painful, but I must tell you everything. Your strength will help me to resist the impressions that will not be shaken off by reason.”
“I know, Romola—I know he is dead,” said Tito; and the long lustrous eyes told nothing of the many wishes that would have brought about that death long ago if there had been such potency in mere wishes. Romola only read her own pure thoughts in their dark depths, as we read letters in happy dreams.
“So changed, Tito! It pierced me to think that it was Dino. And so strangely hard: not a word to my father; nothing but a vision that he wanted to tell me. And yet it was so piteous—the struggling breath, and the eyes that seemed to look towards the crucifix, and yet not to see it. I shall never forget it; it seems as if it would come between me and everything I shall look at.”
Romola’s heart swelled again, so that she was forced to break off. But the need she felt to disburden her mind to Tito urged her to repress the rising anguish. When she began to speak again, her thoughts had travelled a little.
“It was strange, Tito. The vision was about our marriage, and yet he knew nothing of you.”
“What was it, my Romola? Sit down and tell me,” said Tito, leading her to the bench that stood near. A fear had come across him lest the vision should somehow or other relate to Baldassarre; and this sudden change of feeling prompted him to seek a change of position.
Romola told him all that had passed, from her entrance into San Marco, hardly leaving out one of her brother’s words, which had burnt