n here," he said to Nina, in
the same undertone; "and I told him you were in the next room, but that
you were tired, and could not see him just now. No, I don't think it
would do for you to go back at present--what do you say, doctor?--he
seems so much more tranquil, and it would be a pity to run any risk. But
if you could just let him know you were here--he might hear your talking
to us--that would be no harm--"

[Illustration: "_She threw herself on her knees by the bedside and
seized his hand._"]

"I know how to tell Leo that I am here," Nina said, simply; and she went
to the piano and opened it. Then, with the most exquisite softness, she
began to play some familiar Neapolitan airs--slowly and gently, so that
they must have sounded in the sick-chamber like mere echoes of song
coming from across wide waters. And would he not understand that it was
Nina who was speaking to him; that she was only a few yards from him;
and not the ghostly Nina who had so often come to the sick-room door and
remained there strangely silent, but the wilful, gentle, capricious,
warm-hearted _cianciosella_ who had kissed his hand but a little
while ago, and wept over it, amid her bitter sobs. These were love-songs
for the most part that she was playing; but that was neither here nor
there; the soft, rippling notes were more like the sound of a trickling
waterfall in some still summer solitude. "_Cannetella, oje Cannete!_"
"_Chello che tu me dice, Nenna, non boglio fa._" "_Io te voglio bene
assaje, e tu non pienz' a me!_" He would know it was Nina who was
playing for him--until slowly and more slowly, and gently and more
gently, the velvet-soft notes gradually ceased, and at length there was
silence.

Old Mrs. Moore went over to the girl and patted her affectionately on
the shoulder and kissed her.

"Lionel has told us a great deal about you," the old lady said; "even
when he was in Naples we seemed to know you quite well; and now I hope
we shall be friends."

And Nina made answer, with downcast eyes:

"Whenever you wish it, madame, I shall be glad to come and play a
little--if he cares to hear the Neapolitan airs that he used to know in
former days."

Yes, there was no doubt that this opportune visit had made a great
difference in Lionel's condition; for, though the fever did not
abate--and could not be expected to abate until the crisis had been
reached, there were no more of those agonized pleadings and murmurings
that showe