Among her many other attractions my wife was gifted with a beautiful and well-trained voice.  She sung with exquisite expression, and many an evening when Guido and myself sat smoking in the garden, after little Stella had gone to bed, Nina would ravish our ears with the music of her nightingale notes, singing song after song, quaint stornelli and ritornelli—­songs of the people, full of wild and passionate beauty.  In these Guido would often join her, his full barytone chiming in with her delicate and clear soprano as deliciously as the fall of a fountain with the trill of a bird.  I can hear those two voices now; their united melody still rings mockingly in my ears; the heavy perfume of orange-blossom, mingled with myrtle, floats toward me on the air; the yellow moon burns round and full in the dense blue sky, like the King of Thule’s goblet of gold flung into a deep sea, and again I behold those two heads leaning together, the one fair, the other dark; my wife, my friend—­those two whose lives were a million times dearer to me than my own.  Ah! they were happy days—­days of self-delusion always are.  We are never grateful enough to the candid persons who wake us from our dream—­yet such are in truth our best friends, could we but realize it.

August was the most terrible of all the summer months in Naples.  The cholera increased with frightful steadiness, and the people seemed to be literally mad with terror.  Some of them, seized with a wild spirit of defiance, plunged into orgies of vice and intemperance with a reckless disregard of consequences.  One of these frantic revels took place at a well-known cafe.  Eight young men, accompanied by eight girls of remarkable beauty, arrived, and ordered a private room, where they were served with a sumptuous repast.  At its close one of the party raised his glass and proposed, “Success to the cholera!” The toast was received with riotous shouts of applause, and all drank it with delirious laughter.  That very night every one of the revelers died in horrible agony; their bodies, as usual, were thrust into flimsy coffins and buried one on top of another in a hole hastily dug for the purpose.  Dismal stories like these reached us every day, but we were not morbidly impressed by them.  Stella was a living charm against pestilence; her innocent playfulness and prattle kept us amused and employed, and surrounded us with an atmosphere that was physically and mentally wholesome.

One morning—­one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching month—­I woke at an earlier hour than usual.  A suggestion of possible coolness in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden.  My wife slept soundly at my side.  I dressed softly, without disturbing her.  As I was about to leave the room some instinct made me turn back to look at her once more.  How lovely she was! she smiled in her sleep!  My heart beat as I gazed—­she had been mine for three years—­mine only!—­and my passionate admiration and love of her had increased in proportion to that length of time.  I raised one of the scattered golden locks that lay shining like a sunbeam on the pillow, and kissed it tenderly.  Then—­all unconscious of my fate—­I left her.