“My child, in pity to a sorrowing old man, restrain your grief.  Control yourself, Mary, for yesterday each word you uttered pierced the heart of the poor Deodati like a dagger.  It would be cruel and guilty in you to cause his tears to flow anew; at his age such affliction wears down the strength and shortens life.”

“No, Petronilla, I will hide my feelings, and I will appear hopeful.  I saw that the old man was overpowered by anxiety and trouble.  Trust me, Petronilla, and let me go; I must know from the Signor Deodati if he has received any information.”

The duenna accompanied the young girl to the door of the room where Mr. Van de Werve and Signor Deodati were conversing together, but she let her enter alone.

As soon as Mary’s eye fell on the old man, and she read in his face the sorrow of his soul, she uttered a stifled cry of anguish.  She cast her arms around his neck, and rested her head on his shoulder.

The Signor Deodati, deeply moved, seated her by his side, and said, with tender compassion: 

“My poor Mary, we have no tidings yet of our Geronimo.  Are we not unhappy?  Why did not God recall me to himself ere this?  Did I leave Italy and come hither to drink the bitter dregs in my chalice of life?  Could I weep like you, Mary, I might find some relief, but old age has dried up my tears.  Alas! alas! where is my poor Geronimo, the child whom God gave me, to close my eyes on the bed of death?  I would give my fortune to save him, and the little that remains to me of life to know that he still lives.”

Tears filled Mr. Van de Werve’s eyes as he contemplated his daughter and the desolate old man; but he controlled his emotion, and said: 

“Mary, I requested you to stay in your own apartment, because you cannot moderate the expression of your sorrow.  You have disregarded my desire.  I willingly pardon you, my child; but if you wish to remain longer with Signor Deodati, you must exercise some self-control; otherwise I shall send for your duenna to take you away.”

He then added, in a more gentle manner: 

“Now, Mary, I beg, I supplicate you, comprehend the duty devolving upon you.  Be courageous, and do your best to console our unhappy friend.”

With a heroic effort Mary raised her head, and although still weeping, said: 

“You are right, father.  We grieve as though there were no room for hope; but—­but—­”

So great was the violence she was doing herself that she could scarcely draw her breath; but conquering this emotion, she resumed: 

“Ah! signor, we cannot know.  God is so good, and Geronimo has so pure a heart!”

“God is indeed good, my child; but his designs are impenetrable.  If I could only imagine some probable cause to explain my nephew’s absence.  But nothing—­nothing!”

“The bailiff gave us, this morning, a reason for supposing that Geronimo may yet return to us unharmed.”