ere was no answer. She was afraid
that her mother might come up the stairs and hear her speaking through
the door, as though by stealth. She put her lips close to the hole of
the latch and whistled softly. Her whistle was broken by her own smile
as she fancied that Dalrymple might start at the unexpected sound.

But there was no response. Growing bolder, she called him gently.

"Signor! Are you there?"

There was no answer. Just then, as she stooped, the pain ran through her
once more. She was so sure that she had heard him that she was convinced
he must be within, very probably in his little laboratory beyond the
bedroom. The pain hurt her, and he had the medicine. Very naturally she
pulled the string and pushed the door open.

He was not there. The moonlight flooded everything, and the whitewashed
walls reflected it, so that the place was as bright as day. The first
object that met her eyes was a small bottle standing near the edge of
the table in the middle of the room, where Dalrymple had carelessly set
it down in the afternoon when Sora Nanna had called him to read her
letter. It was directly in the line of the moon's rays, and the stopper
gleamed like a little star.

Annetta started with joy as she saw it. It was the very bottle from
which he had given her the camphor, less than a month ago--the same in
size, in its transparent contents, in its label. It might have deceived
a keener eye than hers.

The door of the laboratory stood open, as he had left it, being at the
time preoccupied and careless. She only stopped a moment to assure
herself that the bottle was the right one, reflecting that he had
perhaps felt ill and had taken some of it himself. She went on and
looked into the little room.

"Signore!" she called softly. But there was no answer.

It was clear that Dalrymple was either still out, or was downstairs at
his supper, with her mother. He might be out, however. It was quite
possible, on such a fine evening, for he was irregular in his hours. He
would not like it if he came in suddenly and found her meddling with his
belongings. She crossed the room again and softly shut the door. At
least, if he came, she would not be found with the bottle in her hand.
She could give an excuse.

It was all so natural. It was the same bottle. She knew the right
quantity, for she had the peasant's memory for such detail. There was a
glass and a decanter of water on a white plate on the table. She had no
spoon,