line of Don Paolo's face grew indistinct as he
watched it. He was roused by the entry of Lucia, who had hastily laid
aside her hat. Her face was pale, and her dark eyes were swollen with
tears; her hair was in disorder and was falling about her neck.
Gianbattista instinctively rose and put his arm about the girl's waist
as they stood together and looked at the sick man. He felt that it was
his duty to comfort her.

"The doctor thinks he may get well," he said.

"Who knows," she answered tearfully, and shook her head, "Oh, Tista, he
was our best friend!"

"It was in trying to save me--" said the young fellow. But he got no
further. The words stuck in his throat.

"If he lives I will be a son to him!" he added presently. "I will never
leave him. But perhaps--perhaps he is too good to live, Lucia!"

"He must not die. I will take care of him," answered Lucia. "You must
pray for him, Tista, and I will--we all will!"

"Eh! I will try, but I don't understand that kind of thing as well as
you," said Gianbattista dolefully. "If you think it is of any use--"

"Of course it is of use, my heart; do not doubt it," replied the young
girl gravely. Then her features suddenly quivered, she turned away, and,
hiding her face on the pillow beside the priest's unconscious, head, she
sobbed as though her heart would break. Gianbattista knelt down at her
side and put his arm round her neck, whispering lovingly in her ear.

The day was fading, and the last glow of the sun in the south-western
sky came through the small window at the other end of the narrow room,
illuminating the simple furniture, the white bed coverings, the upturned
face of the injured man, and the two young figures that knelt at the
bedside. It was Gianbattista's room, and there was little enough in it.
The bare bricks, with only a narrow bit of green drugget by the bed, the
plain deal table before the window, the tiny round mirror set in lead,
at which the apprentice shaved himself, the crazy old chest of
drawers--that was all. The whitewashed walls were relieved by two or
three drawings of chalices and other church vessels, the colour of the
gold or silver, and of the gems, washed into one half of the design and
the other side left in black and white. A little black cross hung above
the bedstead, with a bit of an olive branch nailed over it--a
reminiscence of the last Palm Sunday. There were two nails in another
part of the room, on which some old clothes were hung