to be ashamed of myself, or to make you ashamed of me. I began a letter—my first letter to you—but I heard of your marriage before it was done, and then I had to tear the paper up, and put the pen down again.
'I had no right to come between you and your wife, even with so little a thing as a letter; I had no right to do anything but hope and pray for your happiness. Are you happy? I am sure you ought to be; for how can your wife help loving you?
'It is very hard for me to explain why I have ventured on writing now, and yet I can't think that I am doing wrong. I heard a few days ago (for I have a friend at Pisa who keeps me informed, by my own desire, of all the pleasant changes in your life)—I heard of your child being born; and I thought myself, after that, justified at last in writing to you. No letter from me, at such a time as this, can rob your child's mother of so much as a thought of yours that is due to her. Thus, at least, it seems to me. I wish so well to your child, that I cannot surely be doing wrong in writing these lines.
'I have said already what I wanted to say—what I have been longing to say for a whole year past. I have told you why I left Pisa; and have, perhaps, persuaded you that I have gone through some suffering, and borne some heart-aches for your sake. Have I more to write? Only a word or two, to tell you that I am earning my bread, as I always wished to earn it, quietly at home—at least, at what I must call home now. I am living with reputable people, and I want for nothing. La Biondella has grown very much; she would hardly be obliged to get on your knee to kiss you now; and she can plait her dinner-mats faster and more neatly than ever. Our old dog is with us, and has learned two new tricks; but you can't be expected to remember him, although you were the only stranger I ever saw him take kindly to at first.
'It is time I finished. If you have read this letter through to the end, I am sure you will excuse me if I have written it badly. There is no date to it, because I feel that it is safest and best for both of us that you should know nothing of where I am living. I bless you and pray for you, and bid you affectionately farewell. If you can think of me as a sister, think of me sometimes still.'
Fabio sighed bitterly while he read the letter. 'Why,' he whispered to himself, 'why does it come at such a time as this, when I cannot dare not think of her?' As he slowly folded the letter up the tears came into his eyes, and he half raised the paper to his lips. At the same moment, some one knocked at the door of the room. He started, and felt himself changing color guiltily as one of his servants entered.
'My mistress is awake,' the man said, with a very grave face, and a very constrained manner; 'and the gentlemen in attendance desire me to say—'
He was interrupted, before he could give his message, by one of the medical men, who had followed him into the room.
'I wish I had better news to communicate,' began the doctor, gently.
'She is worse, then?' said Fabio, sinking back into the chair from which he had risen the moment before.
'She has awakened weaker instead of stronger after her sleep,' returned the doctor, evasively. 'I never like to give up all hope till the very last, but—'
'It is cruel not to be candid with him,' interposed another voice—the voice of the doctor from Florence, who had just entered the room. 'Strengthen yourself to bear the worst,' he continued, addressing himself to Fabio. 'She is dying. Can you compose yourself enough to go to her bedside?'
Pale and speechless, Fabio rose from his chair, and made a sign in the affirmative. He trembled so that the doctor who had first spoken was obliged to lead him out of the room.
'Your mistress has some near relations in Pisa, has she not?' said the doctor from Florence, appealing to the servant who waited near him.
'Her father, sir, Signor Luca Lomi; and her uncle, Father Rocco,' answered the man. 'They were here all through the day, until my mistress fell asleep.'
'Do you know where to find them now?'
'Signor Luca told me he should be at his studio, and Father Rocco said I might find him at his lodgings.'
'Send for them both directly. Stay, who is your mistress's confessor? He ought to be summoned without loss of time.'
'My mistress's confessor is Father Rocco, sir.'
'Very well—send, or go yourself, at once. Even minutes may be of importance now.' Saying this, the doctor turned away, and sat down to wait for any last demands on his services, in the chair which Fabio had just left.
CHAPTER III.
Before the servant could get to the priest's lodgings a visitor had applied there for admission, and had been immediately received by Father Rocco himself. This favored guest was a little man, very sprucely and neatly dressed, and oppressively polite in his manner. He bowed when he first sat down, he bowed when he answered the usual inquiries about his health, and he bowed, for the third time, when Father Rocco asked what had brought him from Florence.
'Rather an awkward business,' replied the little man, recovering himself uneasily after his third bow. 'The dressmaker, named Nanina, whom you placed under my wife's protection about a year ago—'
'What of her?' inquired the priest eagerly.
'I regret to say she has left us, with her child-sister, and their very disagreeable dog, that growls at everybody.'
'When did they go?'
'Only yesterday. I came here at once to tell you, as you were so very particular in recommending us to take care of her. It is not our fault that she has gone. My wife was kindness itself to her, and I always treated her like a duchess. I bought dinner-mats of her sister; I even put up with the thieving and growling of the disagreeable dog —'
'Where have they gone to? Have you found out that?'
