The wood crackles and snaps, and sends up showers of sparks; then it bursts into flame, blazing away with a regular, monotonous sound, like the breath of a sleeping giant.  In the dusk the firelight flashes upon the walls, brings out the pattern of the wall-paper, and travels far enough to illuminate a corner of the desk.  The shadows lengthen and then shorten again, thicken and then shrink; everything in the room seems to be continually changing its size and shape.  Signor Odoardo, giving free rein to his thoughts, evokes the vision of his married life, sees the baby’s cradle, recalls her first cries and smiles, feels again his dying wife’s last kiss, and hears the last word upon her lips,—­Doretta.  No, no, it is impossible that he should ever do anything to make his Doretta unhappy!  And yet he is not sure of resisting Signora Evelina’s wiles; he is almost afraid that, when he sees his enchantress on the morrow, all his strong resolves may take flight.  There is but one way out of it.

“Doretta,” says Signor Odoardo.

“Father?”

“Are you going to copy out your letter to your grandmamma this evening?”

“Yes, father.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go and see your grandmamma yourself?”

“With whom?” the child falters anxiously, her little heart beating a frantic tattoo as she awaits his answer.

“With me, Doretta.”

“With you, daddy?” she exclaims, hardly daring to believe her ears.

“Yes, with me; with your daddy.”

“Oh, daddy, daddy!” she cries, her little arms about his neck, her kisses covering his face.  “Oh, daddy, my own dear daddy!  When shall we start?”

“To-morrow morning, if you’re not afraid of the snow.”

“Why not now?  Why not at once?”

“Gently—­gently.  Good Lord, doesn’t the child want her dinner first?”

And Signor Odoardo, gently detaching himself from his daughter’s embrace, rises and rings for the lamp.  Then, instinctively, he glances once more towards the window.  In the opposite house all is dark, and Signora Evelina’s profile is no longer outlined against the pane.  The weather is still threatening, and now and then a snowflake falls.  The servant closes the shutters and draws the curtains, so that no profane gaze may penetrate into the domestic sanctuary.

“We had better dine in here,” Signor Odoardo says.  “The dining-room must be as cold as Greenland.”

Doretta, meanwhile, is convulsing the kitchen with the noisy announcement of the impending journey.  At first she is thought to be joking, but when she establishes the fact that she is speaking seriously, it is respectfully pointed out to her that the master of the house must be crazy.  To start on a journey in the depth of winter, and in such weather!  If at least they were to wait for a fine day!

But what does Doretta care for the comments of the kitchen?  She is beside herself with joy.  She sings, she dances about the room, and breaks off every moment or two to give her father a kiss.  Then she pours out the fulness of her emotion upon the cat Melanio and the doll Nini, promising the latter to bring her back a new frock from Milan.