"

It was almost night when he reached his wretched room. He entered very
softly, fearing to cause too strong an emotion to his wife, whom he
had left so weak. The last rays of the sun, entering through the garret
window, were fading from Ginevra's face as she sat sleeping in her
chair, and holding her child upon her breast.

"Wake, my dear one," he said, not observing the infant, which shone, at
that moment, with supernatural light.

Hearing that voice, the poor mother opened her eyes, met Luigi's
look, and smiled; but Luigi himself gave a cry of horror; he scarcely
recognized his wife, now half mad. With a gesture of savage energy he
showed her the gold. Ginevra began to laugh mechanically; but suddenly
she cried, in a dreadful voice:--

"The child, Luigi, he is cold!"

She looked at her son and swooned. The little Bartolomeo was dead. Luigi
took his wife in his arms, without removing the child, which she clasped
with inconceivable force; and after laying her on the bed he went out to
seek help.

"Oh! my God!" he said, as he met his landlord on the stairs. "I have
gold, gold, and my child has died of hunger, and his mother is dying,
too! Help me!"

He returned like one distraught to his wife, leaving the worthy mason,
and also the neighbors who heard him to gather a few things for the
needs of so terrible a want, hitherto unknown, for the two Corsicans had
carefully hidden it from a feeling of pride.

Luigi had cast his gold upon the floor and was kneeling by the bed on
which lay his wife.

"Father! take care of my son, who bears your name," she was saying in
her delirium.

"Oh, my angel! be calm," said Luigi, kissing her; "our good days are
coming back to us."

"My Luigi," she said, looking at him with extraordinary attention,
"listen to me. I feel that I am dying. My death is natural; I suffered
too much; besides, a happiness so great as mine has to be paid for.
Yes, my Luigi, be comforted. I have been so happy that if I were to live
again I would again accept our fate. I am a bad mother; I regret you
more than I regret my child--My child!" she added, in a hollow voice.

Two tears escaped her dying eyes, and suddenly she pressed the little
body she had no power to warm.

"Give my hair to my father, in memory of his Ginevra," she said. "Tell
him I have never blamed him."

Her head fell upon her husband's arm.

"No, you cannot die!" cried Luigi. "The doctor is coming. We have
food. Your father wil