There, you know it now-all the black and bitter truth."

66

Alas, poor Hugh!” I faltered, tearfully.

Maddalena opened her dark eyes full upon me, half in wonder, half in scorn. She had expected a torrent of reproaches. She could not comprehend how grief and pity should take precedence of resentment in my heart.

"We left Chambery," she resumed hastily, "and went to Nice. There he consented to rest awhile, and repair his shattered strength. It had been agreed that Mrs. Sandyshaft should only write in case she had something definite to communicate. Day after day, he waited and hoped. At last he wrote to her at Naples. I intercepted that letter also, and it remained unanswered. At length the climate, which at first had done him good, began to fail of its effect. As the spring advanced, he fell gradually more and more out of health. I saw him declining daily-not from disease; but because he was too weary of life to bear the burthen of living. Then my punishment began."

"Wretch!" I cried, "you let him die! You let him die, when a word would have saved him! Oh, it was murder-murder!"

She smiled a strange, agonised, terrible smile.

"You have been well avenged," she said, “in all that I have suffered."

I fell on my knees beside the little cot, in a paroxysm of despair and horror. I could not weep. I could only struggle for breath, and grasp the woodwork frame with both hands, convulsively.

"My child!" I gasped. "My poor, fatherless baby! Dead.... oh, God! dead . . . . dead!” Maddalena came over swiftly and silently, and laid her cold hand on mine.

"Be comforted," she said. "Your husband lives."

I looked at her. My lips moved, but my tongue was dumb. I felt as if her words had some meaning which my sense failed to compass.

"He lives," she repeated. "I have come to take you to him."

The reaction was too much. I had not strength to bear the sudden joy. I uttered a faint cry; felt myself falling forward, powerless to put out a hand in self help; and lapsed into utter unconsciousness.

294

CHAPTER XXI.

THE OSTERIA DELLA FOSSA.

66

66

Quite dumb? Dead, dead."-SHAKESPEARE.

WHERE is she?"

They were the first words I uttered, when my memory came back and I had strength to speak.

"Hush, Bab,” said my aunt, putting her finger to her lip. "You mustn't talk. What's-hername's gone this three-quarters of an hour, and mercy on us! you mustn't try to sit up, child! Lie down and be quiet, or we shall have you going off again, as sure as fate."

"Gone? Gone without me?" I cried, struggling to an upright posture, in spite of my aunt's well-meant efforts to pin me to the sofa.

"Without you?—well, I should think so. Here

you've been in a dead faint, ever since they fetched me home. You wouldn't have had her put you in a coach and carry you off like that, I suppose? But do lie down, Bab, and hold your tongue, and be rational."

I fell back, silenced and exhausted.

aunt.

"Besides, we've got the address," added my "Ida has it all written out upon a card. Hotel-hotel.... whatever is the name of the place, my dear? I'm sure I can't remember." "Osteria della Fossa," replied Ida, smoothing my hair back, tenderly.

"Where is it?" I whispered.

"Some little way beyond La Storta, Liebchen, on the Florence road-not far, I believe, from Veii."

I closed my eyes and lay still for several minutes, during which my aunt insisted on prescribing salvolatile and water, while Goody busied herself in the preparation of some strong "English" tea.

"What o'clock is it?" was my next question. "Nearly ten, darling; and a wild dreary night.” My aunt looked up, sharply.

"It's of no use, Bab," said she. "I know what you're thinking of; but it can't be done. You don't stir an inch before to-morrow, I promise you-and not then, unless you're a vast deal better."

I made no reply; but I pressed Ida's hand significantly, and she returned the pressure.

"And Hugh won't expect you, either," continued my aunt. "She'll tell him you're not well; and it won't kill him to wait twelve hours longer!"

"He will not wait till to-morrow," I said, confidently. "He will be here himself before midnight." "Here himself? No, no, my dear-love can do a good deal, I've no doubt; but I don't believe in miracles. Love won't give a man strength to rise from a sick-bed, on which...."

"A sick-bed?" I cried, starting upright in a moment. "Merciful heaven! he is ill, and you never told me !"

"Never told you?" stammered my aunt.

she.... didn't she tell

you

"But

"Not a word. Oh, speak-speak quickly... the truth-let me have the truth!"

My aunt hesitated, and looked as if she would fain recall her words.

"He he was ill when he started, you know . . ." she began.

"I did not know it!"

"But he would come, when he once knew you were in Rome. He was too ill to venture by sea, so they travelled post. . . ."

"All the way from Nice?"

"No, from the baths of Lucca, where he had