It was dark, but the hall-lamp had not been lit, so I took a wax taper from the writing-table and, lighting it, proceeded to escort them up the staircase.  Some spirit of mischief prompted me by a sudden movement to let the light be blown out.  In an instant the hand of Eugenio met mine, and thus hand in hand, swinging to and fro, we came to the drawing-room door, and a flood of light bursting upon us discovered to Signora Lucretia my face flushed with suppressed laughter, and Eugenio’s eyes no longer timid, but sparkling with joy.  From this time he would spend whole nights in writing verses, which he would show to his mother.  She, noting the classical allusions, and having a great respect for literary talents, did not repress his efforts, but on the contrary appeared desirous that he should show his verses to my mother and to me.  Mingled with expressions of grief and despair at the inconstancy of fortune and the decrees of fate were allegorical fancies in which I could perceive that I held a place, but I never allowed him to think that I noticed this; and indeed after the escapade of the staircase I became more distant than before.

However, one day when Celestino was feeling more weak and tired than usual, and I was propping him up on the sofa, I observed with some trepidation that Eugenio, who had been reading at the window, changed his seat to one near the head of the sofa.  His mother and mine were busy sewing at a window in the next room, from whence they could see us through the folding doors.  His eyes were full of tears, and, suddenly bending over his brother and rearranging a cushion, he seized my hand and covered it with silent kisses.  In a moment I had disengaged my hand, full of fear for the result to Eugenio should Signora Lucretia’s attention be directed toward us.  The same evening, on returning from a visit, I learned that my mother and Signora Mortera had gone out under the escort of Oswald to attend vespers at a church some distance off.  We young people passed the evening alone together.  The crimson curtains were closely drawn, and the cosy room was lighted by a blazing fire.  Reclining in an easy-chair, I held Celestino’s fragile form in my arms, the wonderful eyes gazing into mine as I watched with emotions too deep for words their ever-varying expression.  Eugenio sat on an ottoman at my feet, alternately reading aloud from Dante and pausing to observe me, while Virginia was on the hearth-rug, happy in adorning her doll with pieces of silk, beads and flowers.

Suddenly Eugenio said, “Does the signora remember in the narrative of Dives and Lazarus how Lazarus was thankful for the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table?”

I understood him, and hiding my face in Celestino’s tendril-like curls, I replied, “Yes, but I wonder whether he would have been hungry enough to eat crumbs that he knew to be poisoned?”

He made no reply.

“Eugenio,” I continued, “what are your plans for the future?  Is it your own desire to become a priest?”