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ARIADNE. 83motionless.Itouched and raised her; she roseslowly to her feet." HaveIbeen mad ?" she said to me.Hardly couldIkeep from weeping,Imyself." Nay, my dear, not that," Isaid to her." Nay, never that; you have been ill. Butnow-?>She shivered from head to foot. With returningreasonno doubt she remembered all thingsthat had passed. She was silent, standing andlooking on the Etruscan river, she had loved sowell, asit flowed to the sea beneath the moon.Her eyeshad lost their strained look of unconsciouspain,and the burning light had gone outof them; they were wet and dim, and had anunspeakablemisery in them,like that in ayounganimal's, whenitis dying,andknows thatit dies." What month isit ? " she asked.Itoldher."It was summer when he wrote," she said,and then was still again, gazing at the water.Ibegan to fear that too soonIhad rejoiced,and that the clouds woulcl gather overher again,and that she again woulcl lose herself in thata 2