“Oh, Ginevra!” he cried.

She gave a convulsive bound in her chair, and blushed.

“Could I sleep while you were wearing yourself out with toil?” she said.

“But to me alone belongs the right to work in this way,” he answered.

“Could I be idle,” she asked, her eyes filling with tears, “when I know that every mouthful we eat costs a drop of your blood?  I should die if I could not add my efforts to yours.  All should be in common between us:  pains and pleasures, both.”

“She is cold!” cried Luigi, in despair.  “Wrap your shawl closer round you, my own Ginevra; the night is damp and chilly.”

They went to the window, the young wife leaning on the breast of her beloved, who held her round the waist, and, together, in deep silence, they gazed upward at the sky, which the dawn was slowly brightening.  Clouds of a grayish hue were moving rapidly; the East was growing luminous.

“See!” said Ginevra.  “It is an omen.  We shall be happy.”

“Yes, in heaven,” replied Luigi, with a bitter smile.  “Oh, Ginevra! you who deserved all the treasures upon earth—­”

“I have your heart,” she said, in tones of joy.

“Ah!  I complain no more!” he answered, straining her tightly to him, and covering with kisses the delicate face, which was losing the freshness of youth, though its expression was still so soft, so tender that he could not look at it and not be comforted.

“What silence!” said Ginevra, presently.  “Dear friend, I take great pleasure in sitting up.  The majesty of Night is so contagious, it awes, it inspires.  There is I know not what great power in the thought:  all sleep, I wake.”

“Oh, my Ginevra,” he cried, “it is not to-night alone I feel how delicately moulded is your soul.  But see, the dawn is shining,—­come and sleep.”

“Yes,” replied Ginevra, “if I do not sleep alone.  I suffered too much that night I first discovered that you were waking while I slept.”

The courage with which these two young people fought with misery received for a while its due reward; but an event which usually crowns the happiness of a household to them proved fatal.  Ginevra had a son, who was, to use the popular expression, “as beautiful as the day.”  The sense of motherhood doubled the strength of the young wife.  Luigi borrowed money to meet the expenses of Ginevra’s confinement.  At first she did not feel the fresh burden of their situation; and the pair gave themselves wholly up to the joy of possessing a child.  It was their last happiness.

Like two swimmers uniting their efforts to breast a current, these two Corsican souls struggled courageously; but sometimes they gave way to an apathy which resembled the sleep that precedes death.  Soon they were obliged to sell their jewels.  Poverty appeared to them suddenly, —­not hideous, but plainly clothed, almost easy to endure; its voice had nothing terrifying; with it came neither spectres, nor despair, nor rags; but it made them lose the memory and the habits of comfort; it dried the springs of pride.  Then, before they knew it, came want, —­want in all its horror, indifferent to its rags, treading underfoot all human sentiments.