In the early afternoon of the twenty-seventh of September Luisa was returning from Porlezza with some documents to copy for the notary. In those days the rocks between S. Michele and Porlezza were perfectly bare, and destitute of the narrow pathway which now runs across them. Luisa had had herself ferried that short distance, and had then walked along the lane that, like all those of my little world, both ancient and modern, would admit of no other method of travel; that pretty deceitful lane, that seeks in every way to avoid leading whither the traveller wishes to go. At Cressogno it passes above Villa Maironi, which, however, is not visible from the path.

"What if I should meet her?" Luisa thought, her blood boiling. But she met no one. On the slope between Cressogno and Campo, the sun beat fiercely. When she reached the cool, high valley known as Campo, she sat down in the shade of the colossal chestnut-tree that is still alive, the last of three or four venerable patriarchs, and looked towards the houses of her native Castello, clustered in a circle round a lofty peak among those shady crags. She thought of her dead mother, and was glad she, at least, was at rest. Presently she heard some one exclaim: "Oh, blessed Madonna!" It was Signora Peppina, who was also on her way from Cressogno, and who was in despair because neither at S. Mamette, Loggio, nor Cressogno had she been able to find any eggs. "Carlo will beat me this time! He'll kill me outright, my dear!" She would have liked to go on to Puria, but she was half dead with fatigue. What roads! How many stones! "When I think of my Milan, my dear!" She sat down on the grass beside Luisa, saying many affectionate things to her, and wanted her to guess with whom she had been speaking about her, only a few minutes before. "With the Signora Marchesa! Certainly! Yes indeed! Oh, my dear...." It looked as if Signora Peppina had great things to tell, but did not dare do so, and as their presence in her throat was causing her discomfort, she was bound to make Luisa draw them out. "What a business!" she would exclaim from time to time. "What a business! What language! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" But Luisa held her peace. At last the other yielded to the terrible tickling in her throat, and poured forth her story. She had gone to the Marchesa's cook to borrow some eggs, and the Signora Marchesa, hearing her voice, had insisted upon seeing her, and had kept her there chattering. In her heart she had felt what she believed to be a heavenly inspiration, which prompted her to speak of that unhappy family. Perhaps this was the right moment! She must speak about Maria, "that precious darling, that sweet little mouse, that dear little creature!" But alas! The inspiration had come from the devil and not from Heaven! She had begun to speak, had been going to say how lovely Maria was, how sweet, and how wonderfully precocious, when that ugly old woman interrupted her, looking as black as a thunder-cloud. "Say no more about her, let her alone, Signora Bianconi. I am aware she is very badly behaved, and indeed one cannot expect her to be otherwise!" Then Peppina had tried sounding another note, and had touched upon Uncle Piero's misfortune in having lost his eye. "The Lord chastises the dishonest, Signora Bianconi." Here Peppina glanced at Luisa and regretted her chattering. She began caressing her, reproaching herself for having spoken, and entreated her to be calm. Luisa assured her that she was perfectly calm, that nothing coming from that source could surprise her. But Peppina insisted upon giving her a kiss, and then went her way, murmuring a string of "Oh, dear me's!" and haunted by a vague suspicion that she had made a mess of it!

Luisa rose and turned to look towards Cressogno, clenching her fists. "If I only had a horse-whip!" she thought "If I could only lash her!" The idea of a meeting, the old idea that had made her quiver with passion four years ago, on the night of her mother's death, had flashed across her mind shortly before, as she passed Cressogno, and had once more taken violent possession of her, and now made her start suddenly downwards. She checked her steps at once, however, and returning slowly, went towards S. Mamette, stopping every now and then to think, her brow clouded, her lips tightly compressed, seeking to untangle a knot in the thread of a scheme she was weaving in her secret heart.

At Casarico she sought out the Professor to offer him an opportunity of meeting Ester at her house the next day at two o'clock. As she was leaving she asked him if the Maironi documents were still in his possession. The Professor, greatly astonished at this question, replied that they were, expecting an explanation, but Luisa went away without further words. She was anxious to get home, for she could not rely either upon Cia or Uncle Piero to look after Maria, and she had little confidence in the girl to whom she had given notice. She found Maria alone on the church-place, and scolded Veronica. Then she went to her room and began a letter to Franco.

She had been writing about five minutes when she heard a gentle tap on the window of the adjoining room. That window looked out upon a short flight of steps, leading from the square by the church to some stables, and thence to a short cut to Albogasio Superiore. Luisa went into the little room, and saw behind the iron grating the red and distracted countenance of Barborin Pasotti, who motioned to her to be quiet, and asked if she had visitors. Upon being reassured, Barborin glanced swiftly up and down, and hastily descending the steps entered the house in great trepidation.

Poor woman, she was on forbidden ground, and before her loomed the spectre of the wrathful Pasotti. Pasotti was in Lugano. "Oh, Lord, yes! In Lugano." Having imparted this information to Luisa the unhappy woman began to roll her eyes and squirm. Pasotti had gone to Lugano on account of the great dinner that was to take place on the morrow—to purchase provisions. How? Had Luisa not heard about the dinner? Did she not know who was coming? Why! The Signora Marchesa! The Signora Marchesa Maironi! Luisa started.

Barborin, misunderstanding the expression of her eyes, thought she read a reproach there, and began to cry, her face buried in her hands, shaking those two poor black curls, and saying through her fingers that she was so distressed about it, so distressed! She would rather have lived on bread and water for a year than invite the Marchesa to dinner. This dinner was indeed a cross to her, for it took a deal of thought, and then there was the trouble of preparing everything, to say nothing of Pasotti's awful scoldings, but the worst part of it all was the idea of displeasing Luisa. If, at least, it had been a cross she could lay at the feet of our Lord, but she could not do that, for it contained too much wrath. She had come on purpose to tell her Luisa how distressed she was on account of this dinner.

"Forgive me, Luisa!" she said in her hoarse voice, that seemed to come out of an ancient and tightly closed spinet. "I really could not prevent it, indeed I could not, indeed I could not!"

They were seated side by side on the sofa. Barborin drew a great handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her face with one hand, while with the other she sought Luisa's hand, without turning her head. But Luisa rose, and going to the writing-desk, scrawled upon a piece of paper: "When is the Marchesa coming? What road will she take?" Barborin answered that the dinner was to be at half-past three; that at about three the Marchesa would leave her gondola at the landing-stage of the Calcinera, where Pasotti was to meet her with four men and the famous litter that had belonged to an archbishop of Milan a century ago.

Luisa listened to every detail in silence and with the greatest attention. Before leaving, Signora Pasotti said she longed to kiss that love of a Maria, but was afraid the child might not know how to keep the secret. At this point the good creature plunged her left arm into her pocket up to the elbow, and drew out a small tin boat, which she begged Luisa to give to her little daughter in the name of another battered old craft, whose identity must not be made known. Then she rushed down stairs and disappeared.

Luisa returned to her letter to Franco, but having thought a long time, pen in hand, she finally put the letter away again without having added a word, and drawing the notary's documents towards her, began to copy. Her resolution was formed. Fate itself was offering her this meeting with the old wretch. She had neither a doubt nor a scruple. The passion which had sprung up within her so long ago, which she had caressed and fostered, had now gathered that strength which, when it reaches its full, transforms the thought into the deed at one blow, and in such a manner that all responsibility seems removed from the agent, while in reality, it is simply carried back to the first inward movement of yielding to temptation.

Yes, on the morrow, either at the landing-stage, on the Calcinera path, or on the church-place of the Annunciata, she would stand scornfully before the Marchesa, openly declaring war, and advising her to have a care, for now all legitimate weapons of defence were to be used against her. Yes, she would tell her so, and then she would act, act alone and unaided, since Franco would take no steps. If Franco had made promises she had not. A little later she wrote a note to the lawyer V. begging him to come to her as soon as possible. She wished to learn from him how to use the documents in Gilardoni's possession. Then she resumed her copying for the notary at Porlezza.

The next day Professor Beniamino arrived at Oria an hour earlier than the time fixed by Luisa. After Ester's "yes," the man had become transfigured. He seemed much younger than before. The sallowness of his skin, now irradiated by a rosy inner light, had entirely disappeared, and was only perceptible on his bald head, where Luisa daily expected to see the hair begin to grow. He neither walked nor breathed as before. But to-day he arrived with a clouded brow.

It was reported at S. Mamette that the physician of Pellio had been arrested and taken to Como, and that letters and memoranda had been found in his possession which incriminated others, among whom was Don Franco Maironi.

"I do not fear for Franco," said Luisa. "As to the rest, my good Professor, we will set the physician of Pellio, who is a big fellow and weighs pounds and pounds, down in the score the Emperor of Austria will have to pay. And now, Professor, I want you to promise me something."

"What do you wish me to promise?"

"I need those famous documents."

"They are at your service."

"Pray note that it is I and not Franco who ask for them." "Yes, yes. Whatever you do is well done. I will bring you the documents to-morrow."

"That is right."

Luisa knitted as she talked, her needles clicking continually, but her seeming calm and good spirits did not entirely conceal her inward excitement, which had begun on the previous day, had become more intense during a sleepless night, and was now steadily increasing as the moment for setting out drew nearer. Even in the playful tone of her voice an unusual chord seemed to be vibrating. About her hair, which was always most carefully dressed, there was a something of disorder, like the touch of a light breath brushing gently across her brow.

Ester arrived at a quarter to two, and explained that she had come a little earlier because she had heard it thunder. Thunder? Luisa hastened to the terrace to examine the sky. It certainly did not look very threatening. Above the point of Cressogno and over Galbiga the sky was perfectly serene as far as the hills of the Lake of Como. Towards Carona it was indeed rather dark, but not so very dark, after all. What if the Marchesa should not come on account of the weather? She seized the little telescope that was kept in the loggia. There was nothing to be seen. Of course; it was still too early. In order to reach the Calcinera at three, the Marchesa, with that heavy gondola of hers, must start at about half-past two. Luisa went back to the hall, where she found Ester, the Professor, and Maria. She would have preferred to have Maria remain in the loggia with Uncle Piero, but Signorina MissipipÌ always clung fast to her mother when there were visitors, becoming all eyes and ears. Luisa decided that when she was ready to start she would send Maria away, meanwhile she would keep her with her. As to the happy couple, they were seated apart, and were conversing almost in whispers.

Luisa, who now found it difficult to keep quiet, once more returned to the terrace, and looked through the telescope. Her heart gave a bound! The gondola was just coming in sight at the TentiÒn.

It was a quarter-past two o'clock.

Some one coming from Albogasio had stopped in the church-place to speak to some one coming down the steps at the side of Casa Ribera. They were saying: "Signor Pasotti has just gone down with the litter. There was a troop of children following."

Now the sky was overcast, even above the point of Cressogno and the Galbiga. Only the hills of the Lake of Como were still in the sunshine. The terrible wind which accompanies a thunderstorm, and which in Valsolda is called the Caronasco, was threatening seriously now. Above Corona the colour of the clouds was gradually becoming one with the colour of the hills. The great cloud over Zocca d'i Ment had become dark blue, and the Boglia was also beginning to knit its brows. The lake was calm and leaden.

Luisa had decided to start when the gondola should have arrived opposite S. Mamette. She now returned to the hall.

Maria had obeyed her mother's orders, and had not moved from the chair where Luisa had left her, but noticing that the Professor was speaking with animation and at great length to Ester, she had asked:

"Are you telling her a story?"

At this point Luisa entered.

"Yes, dear," said Ester, laughing. "He is telling me a story."

"Oh, tell it to me also! To me also!"

A muffled peal of thunder resounded. "Go, Maria dear," said Ester. "Go to your room and pray the Lord not to send a terrible thunderstorm or hail."

"Oh, yes, yes! I will pray to the Lord!"

The little one went out, and entered the alcove-room, serious and dignified, as if in that moment the safety of the whole Valsolda depended upon her prayer. Prayer to her was always a solemn matter; it was a point of contact with mystery which always made her assume a grave and attentive air, as did also certain tales of enchantment and magic. She mounted a chair and said the few prayers she knew, and then assumed the attitude she had seen the most pious women of town assume in church, and began moving her lips as they did, repeating a wordless prayer. Seeing her thus one acquainted with the terrible secret of the next hour would have felt that the guardian angel of little children was standing beside her at that moment, and admonishing her to pray for something besides the vineyards and olive-groves of Valsolda, for something nearer to her, something the angel did not name, and she neither knew nor could put into words. The onlooker would have felt also that in these, her inarticulate whisperings, there was an element of occult tenderness, and tragedy, the docile surrender of a sweet soul to the admonitions of its guardian angel, to the mysterious will of God.

At half-past two the great lowering clouds above Carona belched forth another peal of thunder, to which the other great clouds above Boglia and the Zocca d'i Ment immediately responded. Luisa ran out to the terrace. The gondola was opposite S. Mamette, and was making straight for the Calcinera. She could see quite plainly that the boatmen were pulling hard. As Luisa laid aside the telescope the first gust of wind swept through the loggia, banging doors and windows. Terrified by a feeling that she would be too late, she hastily closed both doors and windows, passed swiftly through the hall, seized an umbrella and went out, without telling any one she was going, and without closing the house-door behind her. She started towards Albogasio Inferiore. Just beyond the cemetery, on the spot they call MainÈ, she met Ismaele.

"Where are you going in such weather, Signora Luisa?"

She answered that she was going to Albogasio, and passed on. When she had gone about a hundred paces she remembered that she had not let Veronica know she was going out, that she had not told her to close the windows in the bedrooms, and look after Maria. She might send word by Ismaele. But he had already disappeared round the corner of the cemetery. In her heart she felt an impulse to go back, but there was not time. The rumbling of the thunder was continuous; great, infrequent drops were striking here and there on the maize; gusts of wind swept at intervals through the mulberry-trees, forerunners of the whirlwind of the Caronasco. Luisa opened her umbrella and hastened forward.

A furious downpour overtook her in the dark lanes of Albogasio. But she never thought of taking refuge in a doorway, and pushed on undaunted. She met a troop of children who were running away from the rain, after waiting in vain on the church-place of the Annunciata for the passing of the Marchesa in the litter. While she was crossing the short space between the town-hall of Albogasio and the church, the wind turned her umbrella inside out. She began to run, and reached the strip of ground behind the church that overlooks the path leading down to the Calcinera. There, protected by the church from the driving rain, she righted her umbrella as best she could, and looked over the parapet.

The Annunciata rests upon the summit of a cliff, sparsely covered with brambles and wild fig-trees, which rises from the foot of the Boglia and juts out over the lake, shutting in the narrow path to Calcinera on the west. The strip of ground where Luisa stood runs along that part of the cliff's brow. From here she could have followed the course of the boat from the waters of Cressogno as far as the landing-stage, but now that the rain was pouring down in sheets, a white mist hid all things from view. However, unless the Marchesa returned to Cressogno, she must certainly pass that way, no matter where she landed, for there, at the foot of the cliff, where it juts out with the coast, the narrow stairway starts upwards, leading from the Calcinera to the church-place, and this is the only way of reaching Albogasio Superiore either from the landing-stage below, or from S. Mamette, Casarico, or Cadate.

Presently the violence of the downpour lessened, the dark phantoms of the mountains began to stand out against the white background. Luisa gazed down at the lake. There was no gondola on the lake, and no litter on the path; nothing was to be seen. This troubled her. Was it possible that the gondola had returned to Cressogno? The mist cleared rapidly, and Cadate became discernible, while at the door of the boathouse of the "Palazz" the prow of the gondola appeared, shimmering white in the thin, grey mist. Ah, the Marchesa had taken refuge at the "Palazz," and Pasotti with his bearers had done the same. The thunderstorm was now practically over and the litter would soon appear.

But instead, ten long minutes elapsed. Luisa kept her eyes fixed on the point where the path from Cadate turns into the Calcinera. No movement of thought was going on within her. Her whole soul was watching and waiting, that was all. People passed her on the left going up to Albogasio or coming down, but each time she inclined her umbrella so that she was hidden from view, so that they might not recognise her, thus avoiding greetings and conversations.

At last a group of people appeared at the bend of the path. Luisa could distinguish the litter, and behind the litter Pasotti and Don Giuseppe, and the Marchesa's boatmen bringing up the rear. Still she did not move, but followed the litter with her eyes as it slowly advanced. Presently she closed her umbrella, for the rain had almost ceased. Five or six children from Albogasio reappeared. She ordered them off sharply. They hesitated to obey, but a sudden downpour of rain, unaccompanied by wind or thunder, put them to flight. The litter had now reached the foot of the steps. Luisa moved forward.

Her eyes glittered coldly, and she held herself very erect. Absorbed in one thought, she heeded not at all the pelting rain, which beat upon her head and shoulders, which surrounded her with a misty veil and loud noise. Perhaps she was glad of this outburst of passion in the elements, which was in keeping with the passion within her. She went slowly down, clasping the handle of her closed umbrella very tightly, as if it had been the handle of a weapon. There is a somewhat sharp bend in the stairway, and the bottom is not visible until this bend is reached. Upon arriving there she saw the litter had stopped. The two boatmen were taking the places of two of the bearers.

Luisa went down as far as the spot where a great walnut-tree spreads its branches above the stairs. Here she stopped just as the Marchesa's bearers began coming upwards. Everything was as Luisa wished. Pasotti and Don Giuseppe, bringing up the rear with open umbrellas, could not see her. The bearers, on reaching the spot where she stood, would be obliged to stop to let her pass.

As they drew nearer she recognised the two who carried the front of the litter; one was Ismaele's brother, the other a cousin of Veronica's. When they were within a yard or two of her she ordered them, by an imperious gesture, to stop. They obeyed at once, and set the litter down, the two other bearers doing the same without knowing why. Pasotti raised his umbrella, and seeing Luisa, made a movement of astonishment, frowning blackly. Seizing Don Giuseppe, he drew him aside that she might pass, never dreaming that the meeting was intentional.

But Luisa did not move. "You did not think of meeting me, did you, Signor Pasotti?" she said in a loud voice. The Marchesa stuck her head out, caught sight of her, and withdrew it again, saying, with new strength in her usually lifeless voice:

"Go on!"

At that moment loud cries rang out from the top of the church-place above them. "Sciora Luisa! Sciora Luisa!" Luisa did not hear. Pasotti had called angrily to the bearers: "Go on!" and they had resumed the poles.

"Go on if you like," said she, resolved to walk along beside the litter. "I have only a few words to say."

If Pasotti and the old Marchesa had anticipated tears and supplications this fierce glance and ringing voice must now have led them to expect something quite different.

"Words at present?" said Pasotti, coming forward almost threateningly.

"Sciora Luisa! Sciora Luisa!" a voice cried close at hand in a tone of anguish, while with the cries was mingled the noise of hastening steps. But Luisa did not appear to hear anything. "Yes, at present!" she said, addressing Pasotti with indescribable haughtiness. "I am generous enough to wish to warn this lady that——"

"Sciora Luisa!" This time she was forced to pause and look round. Three or four women were upon her, distraught, dishevelled, sobbing: "Come home at once! Come home at once!" These faces, these tears, these voices, detached her from her passion, from her purpose, at one blow.

She rushed in among the women, exclaiming: "What is the matter?" and they could only repeat, their eyes starting from their heads: "Come home, come home at once!"

"But what has happened, you stupid things?"

"The child, the child!"

"Maria? Maria? What is it, what is it?" she shrieked like a mad woman. Amidst their sobbing she caught the word lake, and uttering a great cry, she dashed them out of her path like a wild beast, and rushed up the stairs. The women could not keep up with her, but on the church-place there were others waiting in spite of the rain, and they were also crying and sobbing.

Luisa felt herself growing faint, and fell to the ground on reaching the last step.

The women ran to her, many hands seized her and lifted her up. She shrieked: "Good God! Is she dead?" Some one answered: "No, no!" "The doctor?" she gasped. "The doctor?" Many voices answered that he was already there.

Once more she appeared to regain all her energy, and sprang eagerly forward. Eight or ten people hastened after her, but only two could keep up with her. She flew! At the cemetery she met Ismaele and another man, and cried out as soon as she caught sight of them:

"Is she still alive? Is she alive?" Ismaele's companion turned and ran back to tell them that the mother was coming, but Ismaele was weeping, and could only answer: "Good God! Sciora Luisa!" as he tried to detain her. Luisa pushed him wildly aside and rushed on, followed by the boatman who had now quite lost his head and was calling out to her as she ran: "Perhaps it is nothing! Perhaps it is nothing, after all!" But the pelting, ceaseless, even downpour, seemed to be contradicting his words with its wail.

Gasping for breath, she reached the square by the church of Oria, and had the strength to call out: "Maria! My Maria!" The window of the alcove-room was open. She heard Cia crying and Ester chiding her. Several people, among them Professor Gilardoni, came out to meet her. The Professor, as pale as a ghost, was weeping silently with clasped hands. The others whispered: "Courage, there is still hope!" In her exhaustion she came near falling. The Professor encircled her waist with one arm and drew her up the stairs, which were crowded with people, as was also the corridor of the first floor.

As Luisa passed, the Professor almost carrying her, voices laden with words of comfort murmured: "Courage! Courage! Who can tell? Who can tell?" At the door of the alcove-room she freed herself from the Professor's arm, and went in alone.

They had been obliged to light a lamp, because it was already dark in the alcove, owing to the rain. Poor, sweet little Maria lay naked upon the bed, her eyes half open, and her lips slightly parted. Her face was still tinged with pink, but her lips were discoloured and her body was deathly pale. The doctor, with Ester's help, was trying to induce artificial breathing, alternately raising the tiny arms above the head and stretching them along the sides, and compressing the abdomen.

"Doctor! Doctor!" Luisa sobbed.

"We're doing all we can," the doctor answered gravely. She flung herself face downwards upon her baby's little icy feet, and covered them with wild kisses. Ester began to tremble. "No, no!" the doctor exclaimed. "Courage! Courage!" "Help!" shrieked Luisa. The doctor checked her by a gesture, and motioned to Ester to pause in her work. He bent over Maria's little face, placed his mouth upon hers and having breathed deeply several times, raised his head again. "But she is still rosy, she is still rosy!" Luisa gasped softly. The doctor sighed gently, struck a match and held it close to Maria's lips.

Three or four women who were praying on their knees, rose and approached the bed, holding their breath in suspense. The door leading into the hall was open, and other faces appeared there, all silent and intent. Luisa, kneeling beside the bed, kept her eyes fixed on the flame. A voice murmured:

"It quivers!"

Ester, standing very erect behind Luisa, shook her head. The doctor put out the match. "Hot flannels," he ordered. Luisa rushed from the room, and the doctor once more resumed the movements of the arms. When Luisa returned with the hot flannels they began to rub the child's chest and bowels, he on one side, she on the other. Presently, noting Luisa's pallor, and the distortion of her features, he motioned to a girl to take her place. "You must give up," said he, for Luisa had made a protesting gesture. "Even I am tired. You cannot go on." Luisa shook her head without speaking and continued her work with convulsive energy. The doctor silently shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows, and gave his place to the girl, ordering Ester to bring more flannel with which to cover the child's legs. Ester went out and herself heated the flannel, for Veronica, on hearing what had happened, had disappeared and was nowhere to be found. In the corridor and on the stairs people were discussing the how and where of the event, and as Ester passed all inquired: "What news? What news?" Ester made a despairing gesture and went on without answering. Then the talk once more flowed on in an undertone.

No one knew how long the child had been in the water. While the thunderstorm had been raging a certain Toni Gall had happened to be in the stables behind Casa Ribera. Reflecting that if the engineer's boat was not tied fast enough it would be dashed to pieces against the walls of the boathouse, he bounded down the steps, and seeing the door open, went in. The boat was being frightfully knocked about, and was drenched with the splashing of the waves that broke against the walls. It was tossing and writhing among its chains, and had set itself crosswise, with the stern knocking against the wall. Opposite the door that opens from the road, there runs a gallery from which two flights of steps lead down to the water, the first on the side of the prow, the second on the side of the stern. Toni Gall went down the second flight to tighten the stern chain. There, between the boat and the lowest step, where the water is from sixty to seventy centimetres deep, he saw Maria's little body. She was floating face downwards, with her back above the water. As he drew her out he saw a little tin boat lying on the bottom. He carried the child to the house, crying out with his terrible voice, bringing the whole town to the spot, and fortunately the doctor also, who happened to be in Oria, and then he helped Ester undress the poor little creature, who gave no sign of life.

With whom had she been before going down to the lake? Not with Veronica, for before Luisa went out Veronica had been seen going into the storeroom where the flowerpots were kept, with her customs-guard. Nor had she been with Ester and the Professor. Ester had sent her to pray in the alcove-room, and had not seen her again. Cia had been sewing and Uncle Piero had been writing when they heard Toni Gall's shouts. Maria must have gone straight from the alcove-room to the boathouse to sail her boat, and as ill-luck would have it, she had found both the house door and the door of the boathouse open. It was Toni Gall's opinion that she had been in the water several minutes, for she was floating at some distance from the spot where the little tin boat lay. Standing in the hall where Cia, the engineer, the Professor, and others from the village were assembled, he was describing his frightful discovery for the hundredth time. All save Uncle Piero were sobbing. Seated on the sofa where Ester and the Professor had sat, he seemed turned to stone. He shed no tears and spoke never a word. Toni Gall's chattering was evidently annoying to him, but he held his peace. His noble countenance was rather solemn and grave than distressed. It was as if the shade of ancient Destiny had arisen before his eyes. He did not even ask for news; it was evident he was without hope. And it was also evident that his sorrow was very different from all this nervous, noisy, fleeting sorrow that surrounded him. His was the mute, calm grief of the wise and the strong.

From the open door of the alcove-room came voices now commanding, now questioning, but for an hour and a half no one could have asserted that they had heard Luisa's voice. From time to time half-frightened, almost happy exclamations were heard. Some one in there had thought they perceived a movement, a breath, the glow of life. Then all who were outside would press forward. Uncle Piero would turn his face towards the door, and only at such moments would his expression become slightly troubled. Alas! Each time he saw the others turn slowly away, in heartbroken silence. It was past five o'clock now, and as it continued to rain the light had begun to fade.

Finally, at half-past five, Luisa's voice was heard. She gave a loud and terrible cry, which froze the blood in the veins of all. The doctor's voice answered in accents of eager protest. It was whispered that he had made a gesture which said plainly: "It is hopeless now, let us desist," but at her cry he had once more renewed his efforts.

The monotonous lament that the fine rain sent in through all the open windows made the stillness of the house seem more sepulchral than ever. The hall and the corridor were growing dark, and the pale candle-light from the alcove-room seemed brilliant by contrast. People began to go away silently and on tiptoe, one shadow after another, and presently steps and hushed voices and the beat of heavy boots were heard on the pavement of the street below. Cia went softly towards her master, and asked him in a whisper if he would not eat something. He silenced her by an imperious gesture.

After seven o'clock, when all outsiders had left save Toni Gall, Ismaele, the Professor, Ester, and three or four women who were in the alcove-room, long, low groans, which seemed hardly human, broke the silence. The doctor came into the hall. It was now quite dark, and he knocked against a chair. "Is the engineer here?" he asked aloud. "Yes, sir," Toni Gall replied, and went for a candle. The engineer neither spoke nor moved.

Toni Gall soon returned with a candle and Dr. Aliprandi—whom I am happy to recall here as a frank and upright man, possessed of a fine intellect and a noble heart—approached the sofa where Uncle Piero sat.

"Engineer Ribera," said he with tears in his eyes, "it is time for you to do something now."

"For me to do something?" said Uncle Piero, raising his eyes.

"Yes. We must at least try to get her away. You must come and speak a word. You are like a father to her. At such moments as these it is a father's place to speak."

"Let my master alone," Cia grumbled. "He can't do these things. It would just be making him miserable to no purpose."

Now pitying voices and kisses mingled with the groans.

The engineer pressed his clenched fists upon the sofa, and remained motionless for a moment, with bowed head. Then he rose, not without difficulty, and said to the doctor:

"Must I go alone?"

"Do you wish me to be present?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Our efforts may be of no avail. I should not wish to force her, but we must, at least, make an attempt."

The doctor dismissed the women who were still in the alcove-room; then, standing in the doorway, he turned to the engineer and motioned to him to come in.

"Donna Luisa," said he gently, "here is your uncle, who is coming to beseech you——"

The old man staggered as he came forward, although his face was composed. He advanced a few steps and then stopped. Luisa was seated upon the bed with her dead baby in her arms, holding her tight, kissing her face and neck, and uttering long, heart-rending groans as she pressed her lips to the little body.

"Yes, yes, yes," she was saying, with almost a smile of tenderness in her voice. "It is your uncle, dear, your uncle, who is coming to see his little treasure, his little Maria, his little MissipipÌ, who loves him so much! Yes, yes, yes!"

"Luisa," said Uncle Piero, "you must control yourself. Everything that could be done has been done. Now come with me—don't remain here any longer—come with me." "Uncle, Uncle!" cried Luisa, in a voice full of tenderness but without looking towards him, while she pressed the little dead body to her breast and rocked backwards and forwards. "Come here! Come here to your Maria! Come! Come to us, for you are our uncle, our dear uncle! No, dear, no, dear! Our uncle will not forsake us."

Uncle Piero shuddered. His grief overwhelmed him for a moment, and wrenched a sob from him.

"Let her rest!" he murmured in a stifled voice. She did not appear to hear him, and continued: "We will go to our uncle, dear, you and I. Do you want to go to him, Maria? Yes, yes! Let us go!" She slid from the bed to the floor and went to Uncle Piero. Clutching her sweet, dead burden to her breast with one arm, she threw the other about the old man's neck, and whispered: "A kiss, a kiss, for your little MissipipÌ. One kiss, only one!"

Uncle Piero bent down and kissed the little face, already sadly ravaged by death, wetting it with two great tears.

"Look, look, Uncle!" she said. "Doctor, bring the candle! Yes, yes! Don't be cruel, doctor. Look, Uncle! See what a little treasure she is, doctor!"

Aliprandi hesitated, and tried to resist her appeals, but in this mad grief there was something sacred, something that must be respected. He obeyed, and raising the candle, held it close to the tiny corpse, that was intensely pitiful with its half-open eyes and dilated pupils, this little corpse that had once been Maria, sweet little MissipipÌ, the old man's delight, the smile and the love of the house.

"Look at this tiny breast, Uncle. See how we have abused it, poor treasure, how we have hurt it with all our rubbing. It was your mamma, Maria darling! Your horrid mamma, and that wicked doctor there."

"Enough!" said the doctor resolutely, setting the candle on the writing-desk. "Talk to your child if you will, but not to this one. Talk to the one in Heaven."

The effect of his words was terrible. All tenderness vanished from Luisa's face. She drew back, frowning fiercely, and pressing her dead child closer to her breast. "No!" she cried aloud. "No, not in Heaven! She is mine! She is mine! God is wicked! I will not give her to Him!"

She drew ever farther back, back into the alcove, where, standing between the great bed and the little one, she once more began uttering those low groans which did not seem human. Aliprandi sent the trembling old man out of the room. "It will pass! It will pass!" he said. "We must have patience. I will stay with her now." Ismaele came into the hall and drew the Professor aside.

"Has Signor Don Franco been informed?" he asked.

They consulted the uncle and it was decided that a telegram in Uncle Piero's name, and announcing serious illness, should be sent from Lugano the next morning, for it was now too late. There was some one else in the hall. Poor Barborin Pasotti, who had hastened thither while her husband was absent escorting the Marchesa back to Cressogno. She was sobbing, and in despair because she had given Maria the little boat. She wished to go to Luisa, but the doctor, hearing loud crying, came out and begged her to be calm and silent. Barborin went to cry in the loggia. The Curate, Don Brazzova, and the Prefect of the Caravina, who had been dining at Casa Pasotti, had accompanied Barborin. Later the Curate of Castello, Intrioni, arrived, weeping like a child. He was determined to go to Luisa in spite of the doctor's protests, and knelt in the centre of the room, entreating her to give her baby to the Lord. "Listen, Signora Luisa, listen. If you will not give her to God, give her to her grandmother Teresa, to your own dear mother who will be so happy to have her with her in Heaven."

Luisa was touched, not by his words, but by his grief, and answered gently: "Can you not understand that I do not believe in your Heaven? My Heaven is here!"

Aliprandi made a gesture of entreaty to the Curate, who went out, sobbing.

The doctor left Oria towards midnight with the Professor. The whole house was quiet, nor was any voice to be heard in the alcove-room. Aliprandi had spent the last two hours in the hall with the Professor and Ester, and not a single cry, not a groan, nor any movement had he heard. He had gone twice to look in. Luisa was sitting on the edge of her bed, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, contemplating the little bed which Aliprandi could not see. This state of immobility caused him more anxiety than the state of intense excitement that had preceded it. As Ester was going to remain all night he advised her to try and rouse her friend, to make her talk and weep.

Some women from the village were to watch with Ester, and Ismaele would be there until five o'clock, when he must start for Lugano. Uncle Piero had gone to bed.

Aliprandi and the Professor stopped on the square by the church to look at the lighted window of the alcove-room, and to listen. Silence. "Accursed lake!" the physician exclaimed, taking his companion's arm and once more starting forward. He was certainly thinking of the sweet little creature the lake had killed when he uttered the words, but in his heart there was also a great fear that other troubles might be approaching, that the treacherous waters had not yet done their worst; and he was overwhelmed with pity for the poor father, who, as yet, knew nothing.