became a
bower, and to sleep in it brought a tingling sense which she had never
felt before.

Living in the midst of Rossi's surroundings, she felt as if she were
discovering something new about him every minute. His squirrels on the
roof made her think of him as a boy, and his birds, which were nesting,
and therefore singing from their little swelling throats the whole day
long, made her thrill and think of both of them. His presents from other
women were a source of almost feverish interest. Some came from England
and America, and were sent by women who had never even seen his face.
They made her happy, they made her proud, they made her jealous.

It was Rossi, Rossi, always Rossi! Every night on going to bed in her
poor quarters her last thought was a love-prayer in the darkness, very
simple and foolish and childlike, that he would love her always,
whatever she was, and whatever the world might say or evil men might do.

This mood lasted for a week and then it began to break. At the back of
her happiness there lay anxiety about her letter. She counted up the
hours since she posted it, and reckoned the time it would take to
receive a reply. If Rossi telegraphed she might hear from him in three
days. She did not hear.

"He thinks it better to write," she told herself. Of course he would
write immediately, and in five days she would receive his reply. On the
fifth day she called on the porter at the convent. He had nothing for
"Sister Angelica."

"There must be snow on the Alps, and therefore the mails are delayed,"
she thought, and she went down to Piale's, where they post up telegrams.
There _was_ snow in Switzerland. It was just as she imagined, and her
letter would be delivered in the morning. It was not delivered in the
morning.

"How stupid of me! It would be Sunday when my letter reached London."
She had not counted on the postal arrangements of the English Sabbath.
One day more, only one, and she would hear from Rossi and be happy.

But one day went by, then another and another, and still no letter came.
Her big heart began to fail and the rainbow in the sky of her life to
pale away. The singing of the birds on the roof pained her now. How
could they crack their little throats like that? It was raining and the
sky was dark.

Then the Garibaldian and his old wife came upstairs with scared looks
and with papers in their hands. They were summoned to give evidence at
Bruno's trial. It was to take place in