I think she could scarce make out my lineaments. She was of
an entirely different nature to Giacomo the butler--she thoroughly
believed her master to be dead, as indeed she had every reason to do,
but strange to say, Giacomo did not. The old man had a fanatical notion
that his "young lord" could not have died so suddenly, and he grew so
obstinate on the point that my wife declared he must be going crazy.
Assunta, on the other hand, would talk volubly of my death and tell me
with assured earnestness:

"It was to be expected, eccellenza--he was too good for us, and the
saints took him. Of course our Lady wanted him--she always picks out
the best among us. The poor Giacomo will not listen to me, he grows
weak and childish, and he loved the master too well--better," and here
her voice would deepen into reproachful solemnity, "yes, better
actually than St. Joseph himself! And of course one is punished for
such a thing. I always knew my master would die young--he was too
gentle as a baby, and too kind-hearted as a man to stay here long."

And she would shake her gray head and feel for the beads of her rosary,
and mutter many an Ave for the repose of my soul. Much as I wished it,
I could never get her to talk about her mistress--it was the one
subject on which she was invariably silent. On one occasion when I
spoke with apparent enthusiasm of the beauty and accomplishments of the
young countess, she glanced at me with sudden and earnest
scrutiny--sighed--but said nothing. I was glad to see how thoroughly
devoted she was to Stella, and the child returned her affection with
interest--though as the November days came on apaces my little one
looked far from strong. She paled and grew thin, her eyes looked
preternaturally large and solemn, and she was very easily wearied. I
called Assunta's attention to these signs of ill-health; she replied
that she had spoken to the countess, but that "madam" had taken no
notice of the child's weakly condition. Afterward I mentioned the
matter myself to Nina, who merely smiled gratefully up in my face and
answered:

"Really, my dear conte, you are too good! There is nothing the matter
with Stella, her health is excellent; she eats too many bonbons,
perhaps, and is growing rather fast, that is all. How kind you are to
think of her! But, I assure you, she is quite well."

I did not feel so sure of this, yet I was obliged to conceal my
anxiety, as overmuch concern about the child would not have