Jeanne carried _"l'Intruse"_ to her room, but did not continue her reading.

The room looked out on the Lac d'Amour.

She sat down by the window.

Beyond the bridge, beyond the rolling hilltops--destitute of trees--which loomed between intervening houses, she could see the summit of a lofty tower, shrouded fantastically in azure mists.

She heard the continuous peaceful flow of Bach, and thought of Don Giuseppe with that feeling of melancholy which we experience when we catch a last glimpse of some beloved home, turning at every step to look back until at length some bend in the road hides the last corner, the last window from sight.
There was an element of anxiety in Jeanne's grief.