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150 ARIADNE.and full of hopeless longing, like the eyes of acaptive animal."You must love these people that you servethem so," said a priest to her one day,meetingher where the pestilence raged."No," she answered him,"I am only sorryfor them. Iamsorry for anything that lives."And it was the truth. Her heart had openedto pity,butit was closed to all save one love.It was a summer heavy and sickly. Wan,fever-worn children glided through the streets;the little beU, that told of passing souls needingthe church's sacraments, rang ceaselessly; bydaylight andby torchlight the black figures of thebeccamorti passed along the beautiful, solemn,empty ways, where the sun burned and the dustdrifted;the heat lay on the city like a pall, andthe wide, scorched, yeUow plain was like abasinof brass beneath the unchanging pale blue ofthe sky.For myselfIhad borne such seasons before,and had been unharmed; but for herIwasanxious. Yet she seemed to feel no change inthe weather,norin the aspect of the city around