Veronica turned pale and started up.  “Bosio?  Bosio dead?” she cried in a voice that was almost a scream.

The woman was sensible and understood her, and by that time the household was quiet, so that there was no fear lest any one else should come to Veronica’s room.

But when she was quite sure of what had happened, Veronica wept bitterly for a long time, burying her face in her pillows and refusing to listen any more to Elettra.  Then, if the woman had not prevented her, almost forcibly, she would have gone upstairs to see him where he lay dead.  But Elettra would not let her go, for she knew that Matilde was there, and why; and moreover, it was not within her ideas of custom that a young girl should go and look at any one dead.  But Veronica’s tears flowed on.

At first it was only sorrow, real and heartfelt, without any attempt to reason and explain.  But by and by she began to ask herself questions for the dead man’s sake.  In her dreams the sweet words he had spoken in the evening had come back to her, and when she had first opened her eyes at the sound of Elettra’s voice she had thought that she saw his eyes before her in the dimness, before the windows were all opened.  She had not loved him yet, but those words of his had touched something which would have felt, by and by.  And suddenly, he was gone.  Why?  It was so sudden.  It was as though a part of the earth had fallen through, into space beneath, without warning.  There was too much gone, all at once.  She could only ask why.  And there was no answer to that.

Her eyes fell upon the artificial gardenia she had worn.  It lay upon the dressing-table where she had tossed it when she had taken it from her bodice.  Her tears broke out again, for it had meant so much last night, and could mean now but the memory of that much, and never again anything more.  It was a long time before Veronica dried her eyes, and consented to dress.

Apart from the sorrowful horror that filled her, it seemed so very strange that he should have killed himself just after she had promised to marry him, within an hour after they had spoken together of the happiness to come.

“It was an accident,” she said at last, speaking to herself, as though she had reached a conclusion.  “He did not mean to do it.”

Elettra shook her head, but said nothing.  Accident, or no accident, it was the blood of a Macomer for the blood of her own dead husband, murdered up there in Muro by the peasants because Macomer had burdened them beyond their power to pay.

She said nothing, and Veronica expected no answer, but sat still, trying to think, while Elettra noiselessly set the big dressing-room in order.  The woman had given her a black frock without consulting her.

Though Veronica liked her, and knew that she could rely on her devotion, she was not one of those Italian girls who readily confide in their serving-women, and she had told Elettra nothing about the projected marriage, and she said nothing of it now, though she was mourning her betrothed husband.  But she told Elettra to go out and buy a little crape to put on the black frock, and to send for dressmakers to make mourning things quickly.