s, shaken by spasmodic quiverings; her face bent
low, resisted Franco when he would have raised it. At last she took his
hand and kissed it. Then he also kissed her on the hair, and murmured:
"Answer me."

"You are good!" Luisa replied, in a faint and despairing voice. "You
wish to spare me, but you do not believe what you say. You must feel
that I caused her death, that if I had adopted your sentiments, your
ideas, I should not have left the house, and if I had not left the house
this would not have happened, and Maria would still be alive."

"Don't think of that, my dear, don't! You might have believed Maria was
with Veronica; you might have remained in the room with the fiances, and
the accident would have happened just the same. Don't think of this any
more, Luisa. Rather listen to what Maria is saying."

"Poor Franco! Poor, poor fellow!" said Luisa, with such bitterness of
terrible hidden meanings, that his blood ran cold. He shuddered and was
silent, unable to grasp her meaning, and at the same time dreading an
explanation. Slowly they withdrew from each other's arms, Luisa being
the first to move. She again took her husband's hand and wished to
carry it to her lips, but Franco drew her hand tenderly towards him and
made a last attempt.

"Why will you not answer me?"

"I should hurt you too much," she murmured.

He began to realise the irreparable ruin of her soul, and was silent. He
did not withdraw his hand, but felt his strength deserting him, felt
darkness and icy cold creeping over him, as if Maria, whom he had evoked
in vain, had died a second time. Anguish, fatigue, the heavy atmosphere,
the mingled odours of the room, affected him so strongly that he was
obliged to go out, or he would have fainted.

He went to the loggia. The windows were open and the sweet, fresh air
restored him. Out there in the dark he wept for his little daughter
unrestrainedly, without even that restraint which light imposes. He
knelt by one of the windows, crossed his arms on his breast and wept,
his face raised towards heaven, tears and words flowing together,
disjointed words of anguish and of faith, calling out to God for help,
to God, to God who had dealt him the blow. With streaming eyes he cried
out, begging that his tears might continue to flow, confessing that he
knew full well why the child had died. Had he not prayed again and again
that God would preserve her from the danger of losing her faith through
her mother'