Professor. He took it, weeping, and going to Franco, whom he now met for
the first time since that night, he embraced him with silent emotion,
and felt his embrace returned. Then, stepping very softly, he left the
room.

It was striking eight o'clock. Signora Teresa had died the night before
at six; in twenty-six hours Luisa had never rested for a moment, and had
left the room only four or five times for a few minutes. Franco it was
who often went out, and remained away a long time.

Summoned in secret he had reached Castello just in time to see the poor
mother alive, and it had fallen to his lot to perform all the sad
offices which death imposes, for Uncle Piero, in spite of his years, had
not the slightest knowledge of these matters, and was greatly bewildered
by them.

Now, hearing it strike eight, he went to his wife and gently urged her
to take a little rest, but Luisa answered him at once in a way that put
an end to his insistence. The funeral was to take place the next morning
at nine o'clock. She had wished it to be postponed for as long as
possible, and intended to remain with her mother to the last. In her
slim person there was an indomitable vigour capable of withstanding
still greater trials. For her, her mother was there still, on that
narrow couch, among the flowers. She did not think that a part of her
was elsewhere, did not look out of the west window, seeking her among
the tiny stars that trembled above the hills of Carona. Her one thought
was that in a few hours, the darling mother, who had lived so many years
for her alone, caring for naught else on earth save her happiness, would
be laid away to sleep for ever under the great walnut-trees of Looch, in
the shadowy solitude where the little cemetery of Castello rests in
silence, while she herself would continue to enjoy life, the sun, and
love. She had answered Franco almost sharply as if, in some way,
affection for the living were an offence to the affection for the dead.
Then, fearing she had hurt him, she repented, kissed him and endeavoured
to pray, knowing that in this she would be pleasing him, and that
certainly her mother would have expected this of her. She began reciting
the _Pater_, the _Ave_ and the _Requiem_ over and over again, but
without deriving the slightest comfort from them, experiencing, rather,
a secret irritation, an unwelcome drying up of her grief. She had always
practised religion, but, after the ardour of her first Communi