pillow, and the
woman of his love sitting near to him, in the intimacy of a common care
and common duties,--the strange result is that John feels a glow in his
heart, as at the memory of a period of joy.

"Oh, do not let them turn me into a monkey. Oh, Holy Mother, I am so
afraid. Oh, do not let them!" Annunziata cried, shuddering, and
shrinking deeper into bed, towards the wall.

John hung his head and wrung his hands. "My God, my God!" he groaned.

"You should not blame yourself," Maria Dolores said in a low voice,
while she bathed the child's forehead, and fanned her face. "Your
intention was good, you could not foresee what has happened, and it may
be for the best, after all,--it may strengthen her 'will to live,' which
is the great thing, the doctor says."

She had spoken English, but Annunziata's next outcry was like a
response.

"Oh, to live, to live--I want to live, to live Oh, let me live!"

But at other times her wandering thoughts took quite a different turn.

Gazing solemnly up into Maria Dolores' face, she said, "He does not even
know her name, though he fears it may be Smitti. I thought it was Maria
Dolores, but he fears it may be Smitti."

John looked out of the window, pretending not to hear, and praying, I
expect, that Maria Dolores' eyes might be blinded and her counsel
darkened. At the same time, (Heaven having sent me a laughing hero), I
won't vouch that his shoulders didn't shake a little.

II

Apropos of their ignorance of each other's patronymics. ... One
afternoon Maria Dolores was taking the air at the open door of the
presbytery, when, to a mighty clattering of horses' hoofs, a big
high-swung barouche came sweeping into the court-yard, described a bold
half-circle, and abruptly drew up before her. In the barouche sat a big
old lady, a big soft, humorous-eyed old lady, in cool crepe-de-chine,
cream-coloured, with beautiful white hair, a very gay light straw
bonnet, and a much befurbelowed lavender-hued sunshade. Coachman and
footman, bolt upright, stared straight before them, as rigid as if their
liveries were of papier-mache. The horses, with a full sense of what
they owed to appearances, fierily champed their bits, tossed their
manes, and pawed the paving-stones. The old lady smiled upon Maria
Dolores with a look of great friendliness and interest, softly bowed,
and wished her, in a fine, warm, old high-bred voice, "Good afternoon."

Maria Dolores (feeling an instant liki