attle kept us amused and
employed, and surrounded us with an atmosphere that was physically and
mentally wholesome.

One morning--one of the very hottest mornings of that scorching
month--I woke at an earlier hour than usual. A suggestion of possible
coolness in the air tempted me to rise and stroll through the garden.
My wife slept soundly at my side. I dressed softly, without disturbing
her. As I was about to leave the room some instinct made me turn back
to look at her once more. How lovely she was! she smiled in her sleep!
My heart beat as I gazed--she had been mine for three years--mine
only!--and my passionate admiration and love of her had increased in
proportion to that length of time. I raised one of the scattered golden
locks that lay shining like a sunbeam on the pillow, and kissed it
tenderly. Then--all unconscious of my fate--I left her.

A faint breeze greeted me as I sauntered slowly along the garden
walks--a breath of wind scarce strong enough to flutter the leaves, yet
it had a salt savor in it that was refreshing after the tropical heat
of the past night. I was at that time absorbed in the study of Plato,
and as I walked, my mind occupied itself with many high problems and
deep questions suggested by that great teacher. Lost in a train of
profound yet pleasant thought, I strayed on further than I intended,
and found myself at last in a by-path, long disused by our household--a
winding footway leading downward in the direction of the harbor. It was
shady and cool, and I followed the road almost unconsciously, till I
caught a glimpse of masts and white sails gleaming through the leafage
of the overarching trees. I was then about to retrace my steps, when I
was startled by a sudden sound. It was a low moan of intense pain--a
smothered cry that seemed to be wrung from some animal in torture. I
turned in the direction whence it came, and saw, lying face downward on
the grass, a boy--a little fruit-seller of eleven or twelve years of
age. His basket of wares stood beside him, a tempting pile of peaches,
grapes, pomegranates, and melons--lovely but dangerous eating in
cholera times. I touched the lad on the shoulder.

"What ails you?" I asked. He twisted himself convulsively and turned
his face toward me--a beautiful face, though livid with anguish.

"The plague, signor!" he moaned; "the plague! Keep away from me, for
the love of God! I am dying!"

I hesitated. For myself I had no fear. But my wife--my c