d himself, a
lively, prattling, dark-eyed girl of some eight years old, the child
of his second son, whose mother had died in giving her birth. It so
happened that, about a month previous to the date on which our story has
now entered, a paralytic affection had disabled Bernardi from the duties
of his calling. He had been always a social, harmless, improvident,
generous fellow--living on his gains from day to day, as if the day of
sickness and old age never was to arrive. Though he received a small
allowance for his past services, it ill sufficed for his wants,; neither
was he free from debt. Poverty stood at his hearth,--when Viola's
grateful smile and liberal hand came to chase the grim fiend away. But
it is not enough to a heart truly kind to send and give; more charitable
is it to visit and console. "Forget not thy father's friend." So almost
daily went the bright idol of Naples to the house of Bernardi. Suddenly
a heavier affliction than either poverty or the palsy befell the old
musician. His grandchild, his little Beatrice, fell ill, suddenly and
dangerously ill, of one of those rapid fevers common to the South; and
Viola was summoned from her strange and fearful reveries of love or
fancy, to the sick-bed of the young sufferer.

The child was exceedingly fond of Viola, and the old people thought that
her mere presence would bring healing; but when Viola arrived, Beatrice
was insensible. Fortunately there was no performance that evening at San
Carlo, and she resolved to stay the night and partake its fearful cares
and dangerous vigil.

But during the night the child grew worse, the physician (the leechcraft
has never been very skilful at Naples) shook his powdered head, kept his
aromatics at his nostrils, administered his palliatives, and departed.
Old Bernardi seated himself by the bedside in stern silence; here was
the last tie that bound him to life. Well, let the anchor break and the
battered ship go down! It was an iron resolve, more fearful than sorrow.
An old man, with one foot in the grave, watching by the couch of a dying
child, is one of the most awful spectacles in human calamities. The wife
was more active, more bustling, more hopeful, and more tearful. Viola
took heed of all three. But towards dawn, Beatrice's state became so
obviously alarming, that Viola herself began to despair. At this time
she saw the old woman suddenly rise from before the image of the saint
at which she had been kneeling, wrap