I listened like one in a dream.  Not even old Assunta dared to enter her mistress’s room after midnight—­no! not though the child might be seriously ill and suffering.  I knew the reason well—­too well!  And so while Ferrari had taken his fill of rapturous embraces and lingering farewells, my little one had been allowed to struggle in pain and fever without her mother’s care or comfort.  Not that such consolation would have been much at its best, but I was fool enough to wish there had been this one faint spark of womanhood left in her upon whom I had wasted all the first and only love of my life.  The doctor watched me as I remained silent, and after a pause he spoke again.

“The child has earnestly asked to see you,” he said, “and I persuaded the countess to send for you, though she was very reluctant to do so, as she said you might catch the disease.  Of course there is always a risk—­”

“I am no coward, monsieur,” I interrupted him, “though many of us Italians prove but miserable panic-stricken wretches in time of plague—­the more especially when compared with the intrepidity and pluck of Englishmen.  Still there are exceptions—­”

The doctor smiled courteously and bowed.  “Then I have no more to say, except that it would be well for you to see my little patient at once.  I am compelled to be absent for half an hour, but at the expiration of that time I will return.”

“Stay!” I said, laying a detaining hand on his arm.  “Is there any hope?”

He eyed me gravely.  “I fear not.”

“Can nothing be done?”

“Nothing—­except to keep her as quiet and warm as possible.  I have left some medicine with the nurse which will alleviate the pain.  I shall be able to judge of her better when I return; the illness will have then reached its crisis.”  In a couple of minutes more he had left the house, and a young maid-servant showed me to the nursery.

“Where is the contessa?” I asked in a whisper, as I trod softly up the stairs.

“The contessa?” said the girl, opening her eyes in astonishment.  “In her own bedroom, eccellenza—­madama would not think of leaving it; because of the danger of infection.”  I smothered a rough oath that roses involuntarily to my lips.  Another proof of the woman’s utter heartlessness, I thought!

“Has she not seen her child?”

“Since the illness?  Oh, no, eccellenza!”

Very gently and on tiptoe I entered the nursery.  The blinds were partially drawn as the strong light worried the child, and by the little white bed sat Assunta, her brown face pale and almost rigid with anxiety.  At my approach she raised her eyes to mine, muttering softly: 

“It is always so.  Our Lady will have the best of all, first the father, then the child; it is right and just—­only the bad are left.”

“Papa!” moaned a little voice feebly, and Stella sat up among her tumbled pillows, with wide-opened wild eyes, feverish cheeks, and parted lips through which the breath came in quick, uneasy gasps.  Shocked at the marks of intense suffering in her face, I put my arms tenderly round her—­she smiled faintly and tried to kiss me.  I pressed the poor parched little mouth and murmured, soothingly: