flowers and inquiries after my health—­nor was my valet Vincenzo the man to say that he carried gifts and similar messages from me to her.  But at the commencement of November things were so far advanced that I was in the unusual position of being secretly courted by my own wife!—­I reciprocating her attentions with equal secrecy!  The fact of my being often in the company of other ladies piqued her vanity—­she knew that I was considered a desirable parti—­and—­she resolved to win me.  In this case I also resolved—­to be won!  A grim courtship truly—­between a dead man and his own widow!  Ferrari never suspected what was going on; he had spoken of me as “that poor fool Fabio, he was too easily duped;” yet never was there one more “easily duped” than himself, or to whom the epithet “poor fool” more thoroughly applied.  As I said before, he was sure—­too sure of his own good fortune.  I wished to excite his distrust and enmity sometimes, but this I found I could not do.  He trusted me—­yes! as much as in the old days I had trusted him.  Therefore, the catastrophe for him must be sudden as well as fatal—­perhaps, after all, it was better so.

During my frequent visits to the villa I saw much of my child Stella.  She became passionately attached to me—­poor little thing!—­ her love was a mere natural instinct, had she but known it.  Often, too, her nurse, Assunta, would bring her to my hotel to pass an hour or so with me.  This was a great treat to her, and her delight reached its climax when I took her on my knee and told her a fairy story—­her favorite one being that of a good little girl whose papa suddenly went away, and how the little girl grieved for him till at last some kind fairies helped her to find him again.  I was at first somewhat afraid of old Assunta—­she had been my nurse—­was it possible that she would not recognize me?  The first time I met her in my new character I almost held my breath in a sort of suspense—­ but the good old woman was nearly blind, and I think she could scarce make out my lineaments.  She was of an entirely different nature to Giacomo the butler—­she thoroughly believed her master to be dead, as indeed she had every reason to do, but strange to say, Giacomo did not.  The old man had a fanatical notion that his “young lord” could not have died so suddenly, and he grew so obstinate on the point that my wife declared he must be going crazy.  Assunta, on the other hand, would talk volubly of my death and tell me with assured earnestness: 

“It was to be expected, eccellenza—­he was too good for us, and the saints took him.  Of course our Lady wanted him—­she always picks out the best among us.  The poor Giacomo will not listen to me, he grows weak and childish, and he loved the master too well—­better,” and here her voice would deepen into reproachful solemnity, “yes, better actually than St. Joseph himself!  And of course one is punished for such a thing.  I always knew my master would die young—­he was too gentle as a baby, and too kind-hearted as a man to stay here long.”