In her great loneliness, in that dismal household, the reality of faith, hope, and charity as the body, mind, and spirit of the truest life, took hold upon her thoughts, as the mere words and emblems of religion had not done in her first girlhood.  She read for the first time the Imitation of Christ and some of the meditations of Saint Bernard.  The true young soul, suddenly and tragically severed from the anticipation of womanly happiness, turned gladly to visions of saintly joy—­simply and without affectation of form or show—­purely and without earthly regret—­humbly and without touch of taint from spiritual pride.  She had no burden to cast from her conscience, and she sought neither confessor nor director for the guidance of her thinking or doing.  Straight and undoubting, her thoughts went heavenwards, to lay before God’s feet the sad, sweet offering of her own sorrow.

Without, in those dark winter days, storm drove storm over the ancient, evil city, rain followed rain, and gloom changed watches with darkness by day and night for one whole week, while the moon waned from the last quarter to the new.  And within, Matilde Macomer went about the house, when she left her room at all, like a great, pale-faced, black shadow of something terrible, passing words.  And in the library, Gregorio’s stony features were bent all day over papers and documents and books of accounts, seeking refuge from sure ruin, while now and then his face was twisted into a curiously vacant grimace, and his maniac laugh cracked and reverberated through the lonely, vaulted chamber.  He often sat there by himself until late into the night, for the end of the year was at hand, with all the destruction that a date can mean when a man is ruined.

It was a big, long room, with old bookcases ranged by the walls, not more than five feet high, and closed by doors of brass wire netting lined with dark green cotton.  A polished table took up most of the length between the door which led to the hall at the one end, and the single high window at the other.  There was no fireplace, and the count had the place warmed by means of a big brass brazier filled with wood coals.  At night, he had two large lamps with green glass shades.

Matilde sometimes came in and sat with him during the evening.  She looked at him, and wished he were dead.  But she was drawn there by the power which brings together two persons menaced by a common danger, in the hope that something may suddenly change, and turn peril into safety.  He sat at one end of the table with his papers, and she took the place opposite to him, the lamp being a little on one side, so that they could see each other.  They were a gloomy couple, in their black clothes, under the green light, with harassed, mask-like faces.

One night, Matilde came in very late.  She trod softly on the polished floor, wearing felt slippers.

“Elettra sleeps in her dressing-room,” she said in a low voice.