f incense he recognised the
perfume of flowers, and began to tremble so violently that he could not
go on. No sound reached him from the room. Suddenly he heard Luisa's
voice, speaking tenderly, quietly: "Do you want me to go where you are
going to-morrow, Maria? Do you want your mamma under the ground with
you?" "Luisa! Luisa!" sobbed Franco, and they found themselves in each
others' arms, on the threshold of their nuptial chamber, where the
memory of their love was still alive, but where its sweet fruit lay
dead.

"Come, dear. Come in," said she, and drew him forward. In the centre of
the room, between four lighted candles, stood the little open coffin, in
which lay poor Maria, under a mound of flowers, broken and wilted like
herself. There were roses, heliotrope, jasmine, begonia, geraniums,
verbena, flowering sprays of _olea fragrans_, and other blossomless
sprays, all dark and shiny, from the carob tree she had loved so well,
because it had been dear to papa. Flowers and leaves lay across her face
as well.

Franco fell upon his knees sobbing: "My God! My God!" while Luisa chose
two tiny rosebuds, placed them in Maria's little hand, and kissed her
brow.

"You can kiss her hair," said she, "but not her face. The doctor does
not wish it."

"But you have just done so!"

"Oh, it is a different thing for me."

But instead he pressed his lips to her icy lips, that showed among the
geraniums and the carob leaves, touching them gently, as in a tender,
but not despairing farewell to the outward wrapping now cast aside and
empty, which had once belonged to his beloved baby, who had gone to
dwell elsewhere.

"Maria! My darling Maria!" he whispered between his sobs. "What was the
matter?"

He had not realised the connection between the guards' talk about
drowning and the rest of their conversation.

"You have not heard?" said his wife calmly, and without surprise. They
had told her how the telegram had been worded, but she was also aware
that Ismaele was to have met Franco in Lugano. She did not know,
however, that as Franco had not arrived by the coach from Ceneri,
Ismaele had gone to bed.

"Poor Franco!" said she, kissing his hair almost maternally. "There was
no illness."

He started to his feet, terrified, and exclaiming: "What do you mean?
There was no illness?"

Leu, the person whom Franco had heard breathing heavily in her sleep,
now came in with the intention of fumigating the room, but seeing Franco