the study, followed by
Luisa. We are acquainted with this study that was like a ship's cabin,
its shelves filled with books, its little fireplace, its windows
overlooking the lake and the armchair in which Maria had gone to sleep
one Christmas Eve. The room now contained something else. Between the
fireplace and the window stood a small round table, with one central leg
only, that branched out into three feet, about a hand's breadth from the
floor.

"I am very sorry to cause Ester so much pain," said the professor as
they entered the room. He placed the light on the writing-desk, but
instead of preparing the little table and the chairs as usual he went to
look out of the window at the pale light on the water and in the sky,
amidst the surrounding shadows of night. Luisa stood motionless, and
suddenly he faced about as if some magnetism had revealed her anguish to
him. He saw appalling anguish on her face, and understood that she
believed he had made up his mind to stop the seances, whereas he had
only been tempted to do so, and, greatly moved, he seized her hands,
telling her that Ester was good, that she loved her so much, that
neither he nor she would ever willingly cause her suffering. Luisa did
not answer, but the professor had all he could do to prevent her kissing
his hand. While he was arranging the little table and the two chairs in
the centre of the floor, she sank into the armchair, in a state of great
depression.

"There!" said the professor.

Drawing a letter from her pocket Luisa handed it to him.

"I need Maria and you so much to-night," said she. "Read that. It is
from Franco. You can begin with the fourth page." The professor did not
hear these last words, but going to the light, began to read aloud:

"Turin, _February 18, 1859_.
"My OWN LUISA,--

"Do you know you have not written to me for a fortnight!"

"You can skip that," said Luisa, but at once corrected herself.
"No, perhaps you had better read it." The professor continued.

"This is my third letter to you since yours of the sixth.
Perhaps I was too violent in my first letter, and wounded you.
What a temper is this of mine, that makes me speak, and
sometimes even write such harsh words when my blood is up! And
what blood is this of mine that at two-and-thirty is as quick
to boil as at two-and-twenty! Forgive me, Luisa, and permit me
to return to the