She had been so intensely interested in the expansion of his mind, had striven so tirelessly to stimulate his brain, and soften and purify his heart; she had been so proud of his rapid progress, and so ambitious for his future, and now the mildew of death was falling on her fond hopes.  Ah! she had borne patiently many trials, but this appeared unendurable.  She had set all her earthly happiness on a little thing—­the life of a helpless cripple; and as she gazed through her tears at that shrunken, sallow face, so dear to her, it seemed hard! hard! that God denied her this one blessing.  What was the praise and admiration of all the world in comparison with the loving light in that child’s eyes, and the tender pressure of his lips?

The woman’s ambition had long been fully satisfied, and even exacting conscience, jealously guarding its shrine, saw daily sacrifices laid thereon, and smiled approvingly upon her; but the woman’s hungry heart cried out, and fought fiercely, famine-goaded, for its last vanishing morsel of human love and sympathy.  Verily, these bread-riots of the heart are fearful things, and crucified consciences too often mark their track.

The little figure on the bed was so motionless that Edna crept nearer and leaned down to listen to the breathing; and her tears fell on his thick, curling hair, and upon the orange-blossoms and violets.

Standing there she threw up her clenched hands and prayed sobbingly: 

“My Father! spare the boy to me!  I will dedicate anew my life and his to thy work!  I will make him a minister of thy word, and he shall save precious souls.  Oh! do not take him away!  If not for a lifetime, at least spare him a few years!  Even one more year, O my God!”

She walked to the window, rested her forehead against the stone facing, and looked out; and the wonderful witchery of the solemn night wove its spell around her.  Great, golden stars clustered in the clear heavens, and were reflected in the calm, blue pavement of the Mediterranean, where not a ripple shivered their shining images.  A waning crescent moon swung high over the eastern crest of the Apennines, and threw a weird light along the Doria’s marble palace, and down on the silver gray olives, on the glistening orange-groves, snow-powdered with fragrant bloom, and in that wan, mysterious, and most melancholy light—­

  “The old, miraculous mountains heaved in sight,
   One straining past another along the shore
   The way of grand, dull Odyssean ghosts,
   Athirst to drink the cool, blue wine of seas,
   And stare on voyagers.”

From some lofty campanile, in a distant section of the silent city, sounded the angelus bell; and from the deep shadow of olive, vine, and myrtle that clothed the amphitheatre of hills, the convent bells caught and reechoed it.

        “Nature comes sometimes,
   And says, ’I am ambassador for God’;”

and the splendor of the Italian night spoke to Edna’s soul, as the glory of the sunset had done some years before, when she sat in the dust in the pine glades at Le Bocage; and she grew calm once more, while out of the blue depths of the starlit sea came a sacred voice, that said to her aching heart: