f Marietta's room all day, to see that
she took her beef-tea and milk and medicine regularly. She dozed a good
deal. When she was awake, she said her rosary.

But next day she was manifestly worse.

"Yes--bronchitis, as I feared," said the doctor. "Danger? No--none, if
properly looked after. Add a little brandy to her milk, and see that she
has at least a small cupful every half-hour. I think it would be easier
for you if you had a nurse. Someone should be with her at night. There
is a Convent of Mercy at Venzona. If you like, I will telephone for a
sister."

"Thank you very much. I hope you will," said Peter.

And that afternoon Sister Scholastica arrived, and established herself
in the sick-room. Sister Scholastica was young, pale, serene, competent.
But sometimes she had to send for Peter.

"She refuses to take her milk. Possibly she will take it from you," the
sister said.

Then Peter would assume a half-bluff (perhaps half-wheedling?) tone of
mastery.

"Come, Marietta! You must take your milk. The Signorino wishes it. You
must not disobey the Signorino."

And Marietta, with a groan, would rouse herself, and take it, Peter
holding the cup to her lips.

On the third day, in the morning, Sister Scholastica said, "She imagines
that she is worse. I do not think so myself. But she keeps repeating
that she is going to die. She wishes to see a priest. I think it would
make her feel easier. Can you send for the Parrocco? Please let him know
that it is not an occasion for the Sacraments. But it would do her good
if he would come and talk with her."

And the doctor, who arrived just then, having visited Marietta,
confirmed the sister's opinion.

"She is no worse--she is, if anything, rather better. Her malady is
taking its natural course. But people of her class always fancy they are
going to die, if they are ill enough to stay in bed. It is the panic of
ignorance. Yes, I think it would do her good to see a priest. But there
is not the slightest occasion for the Sacraments."

So Peter sent Gigi to the village for the Parrocco. And Gigi came back
with the intelligence that the Parrocco was away, making a retreat, and
would not return till Saturday. To-day was Wednesday.

"What shall we do now?" Peter asked of Sister Scholastica.

"There is Monsignor Langshawe, at Castel Ventirose," said the sister.

"Could I ask him to come?" Peter doubted.

"Certainly," said the sister. "In a case of illness, the nearest p