“Certainly,” answered Veronica, readily.  “Yes—­the rest of the house is horribly gloomy, now.”  Matilde was behind her on the stairs, evidently fatigued, but as the young girl spoke, a look of detestation flashed across her worn face.  She hated Veronica, now that Bosio was dead.  But for Veronica, Bosio would still have been alive.  There was more than the mere desperate determination to save herself, and her husband with her, in what Matilde did after that.  But when they entered the hall, the look was quite gone from her face.  She had been very gentle, all that morning and afternoon.  They had talked a little of the incident that had occurred on the previous day, of Gregorio’s feeling about not letting Veronica spend money uselessly.  He was so conscientious, Matilde had said.  Though the guardianship had expired, he still felt it his duty to watch his former ward’s expenditure.  And he was not charitable—­no, it had always been a cause of regret to Matilde that Gregorio, with all his good qualities, was hard to poor people.  Bosio had been different.  Ah—­poor Bosio!

She spoke gently, and sometimes there was a true ring in her voice which Veronica heard and understood, for it was quite genuine.  And now, she seemed tired and weak—­she who was so strong.

So they went to Veronica’s room, and Elettra brought the tea things, and Matilde made tea, and they both drank it, and talked a little more, and gave the Maltese cat milk in a saucer, on the lower shelf of the little two-storied tea-table.

Afterwards, Matilde went away to her room, and Veronica remained alone after Elettra had taken away the things.

Before dinner, Elettra came and told her mistress that the countess was suddenly taken very ill, and was crying aloud with the pain she suffered.  Veronica hastily went to her aunt, and found that a doctor had already come and was making her swallow olive oil out of a full tumbler.  A servant followed her into the room with a plate full of raw eggs, and the doctor was asking for magnesia.  Gregorio Macomer was standing by, shaking his head, and occasionally supporting his wife with one hand, when her strength seemed to be failing.  Veronica took the other side, and the doctor stood before the sick woman.

“What is it, Doctor?” asked Veronica, after a moment.  “What is the matter with her?”

The physician looked over his shoulder and saw that there was no servant in the room.  “It is arsenic,” he answered in a low voice.  “She has been poisoned.  But there was not enough to kill her—­she will be quite well to-morrow.”

“Poisoned!” exclaimed Veronica, in horrified surprise.  “By whom?” She looked at Gregorio, addressing the question to him.

He gravely raised his high shoulders and shook his head.  Veronica expected to hear his awful laugh; but though his face twitched nervously, it did not come.  He knew that the doctor might afterwards be an excellent witness to his peculiarities, in case he wished to prove himself insane; but on the other hand, had he shown any signs of insanity now, the doctor might have suspected him of having poisoned his wife.  That would have been very unfortunate.