affectionate
wife keeps over her husband's health.

May walked to the hearthrug and stood there; Aunt Maria, sitting very
still, glanced up with a frightened gaze, but her speech came bitter with
aggressive scorn.

"What does the silly creature mean?" she asked. "There's nothing the
matter with Sandro, is there?"

"I don't know that there is," May answered slowly.

"The woman talks as if he was going to die." Still the tone was
contemptuous, still the look frightened. "Such nonsense!"

"I hope it is. He's not strong though, is he?"

Miss Quisante had often said the same, but now she received the remark
irritably. "Strong! He's not a buffalo like some men, like Jimmy Benyon
or, I suppose, that poor creature's husband she's always talking about.
But there's nothing the matter with him, there's no reason he
shouldn't--no reason he should fall ill at all."

"She thinks he ought to rest, perhaps give up altogether."

"Altogether? Nonsense!" The tone was sharp.

"Well, then, for a long while."

"And go away, and let you coddle him?"

"Yes, and let me coddle him." May looked down on Aunt Maria, and for the
first time smiled faintly.

"The woman's out of her senses," declared Aunt Maria testily. "Don't you
think so? Don't you think so?"

"I don't know," was all May could say in answer either to the irritation
of the voice or to the fear of the eyes. The old lady's hands were
trembling as she raised them and gave a pull to the bow of her
bonnet-strings.

"He'll see me out anyhow, I'll be bound," she said obstinately. She was
fighting against the bare idea of being left with a remnant of life to
live and no Sandro to fill it for her; what a miserable fag-end of empty
waiting that would be! She glanced sharply at his wife; she did not know
what his wife was thinking of.

"I'll ask him," said May, "and I must insist on knowing." She paused and
added, "I ought to have noticed and I ought to have asked before. But
somehow----" The sentence went unfinished, and Aunt Maria's sharp
unsatisfied eyes drew no further answer. May kissed her when they parted;
whatever this idea might mean to her, whatever the strange tumult it
might raise in her, she read well enough the story of the old lady's
rough tones, shaking hands and frightened eyes. To the old woman Sandro
was the sum of life. She might sneer, she might scorn, she might rail,
she might and would suffer at his hands. But he was the one thing, the
sole support, sh