randmother. Aliprandi had
been called in the night, after the prefect had left for Oria. He had
found the Marchesa in a state of nervous excitement, tormented by a
terrible fear of death, but exhibiting no symptoms of illness. At
present she seemed quite calm. Franco had her informed of his arrival,
and was ushered into the room by the maid, who looked at him with
obsequious curiosity, and then withdrew.

The half-open shutters of the room where the Marchesa lay, admitted only
two slanting streaks of grey light, which did not reach the face,
thrown back upon the pillow. On entering Franco could not see that
face, but he heard the familiar, sleepy voice saying:

"Is that you, Franco?"

"Yes, grandmother. Good-morning," and he stooped to kiss her. The waxen
mask was unruffled, but there was a vague and gloomy expression about
the eyes that seemed at once desire and terror. "I am dying, you know,
Franco," said the Marchesa. Franco protested, and repeated what the
doctor had said to him. His grandmother listened, gazing eagerly at him,
trying to read in his eyes if the doctor had really spoken thus. Then
she answered:

"It makes no difference. I am quite ready."

From the changed expression on her face and in her voice Franco
understood perfectly that she was quite ready to live twenty years
longer. "I am sorry for your bereavement," said she, "and I forgive
you."

Franco had not expected words of pardon from her. He had believed it was
for him to bring forgiveness, not to receive it. Comforted and
reassured, the Marchesa of every day was gradually reappearing beneath
the Marchesa of an hour. She was willing to purchase peace of mind, but
she was like the sordid miser who, having yielded to the temptation of
gratifying some desire, allowed the price of his enjoyment to escape
painfully from between his tightly-clasped fingers, trying the while to
keep back as much as possible behind his nails. At another time
Franco's wrath would have burst forth, he would have rejected that
forgiveness angrily, but now, with his sweet Maria in his heart, he
could not feel thus. He had however noticed that his grandmother had
proffered her forgiveness to him alone. This was too much; he could not
pass this over.

"My wife, my wife's uncle, and I myself have suffered much beside this
last bereavement," said he, "and now we have lost our only comfort.
Uncle Ribera I leave out of the question; you, I myself, all must bow
before him,