A week ago yesterday, I looked for the last time on her who has been, for so long, at once a care and a help to me.

I feel that her life has left a great peacefulness in mine, that will be a long time before it quite fades away, like the light which remains so long after sunset on a summer evening; and while I am yet, as it were, within her influence, I have wished to write down a little of what I remember of her, that so beautiful a life and death may not be quite forgotten.

It is now nearly four years ago, that a school-teacher, who had been long a friend of mine, came to ask that I would interest myself for one of her scholars, who was about to pass a difficult examination, that she might obtain a diploma of Maestra Communale. Giulia—that was the young girl’s name—was a pleasant, fresh-looking girl, with honest, bright blue eyes, and dark hair that curled lightly about her forehead. Her voice and face interested me at once; and I soon found out that her history also was an interesting one. She was one of a family of fifteen children, then all dead but three; her father was advanced in life, her mother was an invalid, and they were all very poor. There was a sad story also in the family. One of Giulia’s elder brothers had been married, and lived happily for some years with his wife. She died, leaving him with four little children; and such was the violence of his grief, that his mind gave way,—not all at once, but little by little. Gradually he began to neglect his work, his language and behaviour were agitated and unlike his usual self, he wandered much about without an object,—and one day the report of a pistol was heard in his room, and that was the last! The grandparents had taken home all the poor little orphans, and it was to assist in supporting them that Giulia wished to be a teacher.

She had been studying very hard—so hard that she had finished in six months the studies which should have occupied a year! She was an energetic little body, made bold by the necessities of the children; and she went about to the various offices, and had all the needful papers made out, and obtained introductions to all those persons whom she thought likely to help her in her object. Of course I was too happy to do what I could—very little as it happened—and Giulia’s youth, and hopefulness, and bright spirit, were like sunshine in my room. She was much there in those days, talking over her prospects, and what was to be done. One day she came with a very beautiful companion, a little girl of sixteen: “I have brought my sister; she wanted to see you,” she said, by way of apology; and that was how I came to know Ida.

She was very lovely then; I do not think that any of the pictures which I afterwards took of her, were quite so pretty as she was. Let me see if I can describe her. She was a little taller than Giulia, and perhaps rather too slight for perfect beauty, but singularly graceful both in form and movement. Such a shape as the early painters used to imagine for their young saints, with more spirit than substance about it; her hair was dark, almost black, quite straight, as fine as silk, soft, heavy, and abundant; and she wore it turned back from her face, as was the fashion just then, displaying to the best advantage a clear, broad, intellectual forehead. She had a regular oval face, rather small than large; with soft black eyes of wonderful beauty and gentleness, shaded by perhaps the longest lashes which I ever saw—with a pretty little straight nose (which gave a peculiar prettiness to her profile), and a mouth not very small, but beautiful in form and most delicate in expression. Her teeth were very white, brilliant, and regular; her complexion was dark, without much colour, except in her lips, which were of a deep red. When she was a little out of breath, however, or when she was animated in talking, a bright glow used to come up in her cheeks, always disappearing almost before one knew that it was there. She and I made great friends during that first visit: she liked me, as a matter of course, because Giulia liked me; and on my part, it would have been impossible that I should not love anything so beautiful and innocent and affectionate. I did not let her go until we had arranged that I should take her likeness; and from that time forward, as long as Ida lived, I was almost half the time employed either in drawing or painting her. It was seldom that I could keep any picture of her for more than a little while: every one used to ask me where I had found such a beautiful face.

It is pleasant to me now to look back at those days, before any shadow came over that peaceful and most innocent life. Those long happy mornings in my painting room, when she used to become so excited over my fairy stories and ballads, and tried to learn them all by heart to tell to Giulia; and when she, in turn, confided to me all the events and interests of her short life. One thing I soon discovered,—that she was quite as beautiful in mind as in person. If I tell all the truth of what Ida was, I am sure that it will seem to any one who did not know her as if I were inventing. She seemed, even in those early days, like one who lived nearer heaven than other people. I have never quite understood it myself; she had been brought up more in the world than is usual with Italian girls, for (as I have said) her parents were poor, and her mother sickly, and she had been obliged, even from early childhood, to work hard for her daily bread. It seemed almost impossible that no bad influence should ever have come near her; but if it ever did, it passed by without harming her, for there was nothing in her on which it could take hold. Her mind seemed to turn naturally to everything that was good and beautiful, while what was evil made no impression on her, but passed by her as if it had not been.

She lived in a dismal old house, up a great many stairs, in one of the poorest streets of the city. All this does not sound very pleasant: but what did Ida see there? Any one else would have seen, looking from the windows there, dirty old houses out of repair, crammed full of poverty, broken windows, leaky roofs, rickety stairs, rags hung out to dry from garret windows, pale, untidy, discouraged women, neglected children. Ida saw the bright sky, and the swallows that built under the eaves, and the moss and flowers that grew between the tiles on the old roofs. And from one window she could see a little far-away glimpse of the country, and from another she could look down into a garden. She saw the poor neighbours besides, but to her they were all people to be loved, and pitied, and sympathised with. Whatever there was, good, in any of them, she found it out, and ignored everything else. It was a peculiarity of my Ida, that all the people with whom she was intimately acquainted were, in some way or other, “very remarkable.” She never admitted that they had any faults. One old woman whose temper was so fearful that nobody could live with her, was “a good old woman, but a little nervous. She had been an invalid for many years, and was a great sufferer, and naturally she had her days when things worried her.” An idle, dirty old fellow, who lodged in the same house,—who lived principally by getting into debt at one eating-house until the owner would trust him no longer, and then going to another,—she described as “an unfortunate gentleman in reduced circumstances, who had been educated in high life, and consequently had never learnt to do anything. Besides, he was a poet, and poets are always peculiar.” A profane man, who talked atheism, she charitably said was probably insane. Poor little Ida! The time came when her eyes were opened by force; when she saw sin in its ugliness in the person of one who was very dear to her,—and then she died.

But that was some time afterwards. I am writing now of that first happy winter, when I was coming, little by little, to know what my companion was. All that she was, I never knew till after she was gone. Ida was a little seamstress, and she was then only beginning to earn money. Thirty centimes a day[1] was what she gained when she worked for a shop, and for this she used to sit at the sewing machine until past midnight. Sometimes she used to sew for ladies at their houses, and then she earned a franc a day or more.

Her parents allowed her to keep all her own earnings, that she might clothe herself; but there was always something that she wanted for father, or mother, or Giulia, or the little orphans, more than anything that she wanted for herself; so that her own dress was always kept down to objects of the strictest necessity. I am sure it was not that she did not care for pretty things as much as any other girl: if any of the ladies where she worked gave her a piece of ribbon, or a scrap of coloured silk, or anything else that was bright and pretty, it was an unending amusement to make it up in some fanciful and becoming style, whether for Giulia or herself, though she always enjoyed the most working for Giulia. But generally she was engaged in saving money, a few centimes at a time, to buy a present for somebody, which was a great secret, confided to me under promise of silence. One centime a day she always laid by for “the poor.” “It is very little,” she said, “but I save it up until Sunday, and it is enough to buy a piece of bread for an old blind man, who always comes to us for his breakfast on Sunday morning.”

When the time came for Giulia to pass her examination, Ida came to my room every day, and sometimes twice a day, to tell me what progress she was making. Often she came when I was not at home, and then she would write a note with my pencil on a scrap of paper, and pin it up to the window-frame, where I should be sure to see it. I have kept some of these little notes up to this time, written in a childish round hand, telling how many “marks” Giulia had received for geography, and how many for grammar, all signed in the same way—“La sua Ida che li vuol tanto bene!” As long as she lived, her letters were always signed in the same way. Often I would find two or three flowers, carefully arranged by her hand, in a glass of water on my table; or, if I had left my door locked, they would be made into a fanciful bunch, and tied with a bit of blue ribbon on the door-handle. Giulia passed her examination triumphantly, as she deserved to do; and soon after obtained a place as teacher in one of the free schools. I remember that there was a great excitement at that time with regard to a new dress, which Giulia was to wear when she took charge of her class. Ida had been saving money for a great while to buy that dress—it was a grey alpaca—and it was all made, and trimmed, and ready to put on, before Giulia knew anything about it. First I saw the dress unmade, and then made; and then Giulia hurried over to show it to me, supposing that I should be as much surprised as she was.

Meanwhile the winter had passed into spring, and spring was wearing fast into summer, and my pretty Ida was beginning to look rather poorly. She grew very thin, and had but little appetite; I thought also that she looked rather sad—but if I asked her what was the matter, she always said that she was tired, and felt the warm weather. I forgot to say that her mother let rooms to lodgers; by the way, the vagabond poet of whom I have spoken was a lodger of hers. A man who had lodged with them for some time had just then left them; and a military officer had taken his room. I remember still the day when Ida first spoke to me of this man, and seemed pleased that her mother had found a new lodger instead of the old one. Oh, if I could only have warned her against him then!

But, as I have said, Ida seemed to be fading, and I felt pretty anxious about her. We were going up to the mountains about that time, and when we parted she said, “Perhaps you will not find me when you come back; I feel as if I should not live very long.” But she could give me no reason for this presentiment, and I attached no great importance to it, thinking only that she was weak and nervous. After we had been for a few weeks at S. Marcello, I received a letter from her, almost unintelligible, written evidently in great distress of mind, in which she entreated me, if possible, to come to Florence that she might speak to me, as she was in much trouble. She added that she wished she had confided in me sooner; and begged me in no case to let any one know that I had received a letter from her, but to direct my answer to the post-office, and not to the house. I was greatly alarmed, and wrote to her without losing a minute, telling her that it was impossible that I could go to Florence (as the journey was much longer than I had supposed), and begging her to write again immediately, and tell me what was really the matter. After two or three days of almost unbearable suspense, her answer came,—long enough, and plain enough, this time. I wish now that I had kept her letter, that I might tell this part of her sad story in her own words. In my own, it is hard for me to tell it without speaking more harshly than I would, of one who has at least this claim on my forbearance—that Ida loved him!

The military officer of whom I have spoken, who had then been for three or four months in the house, had fallen in love with Ida, in his fashion: that is, she was not his first love, probably not his last, but she pleased him. He was a man of not far from forty years old, good-looking in a certain way, broad-shouldered, tall, fresh-coloured; and very much of a gentleman in his manners. He was a man of talent besides, and he had travelled much in his military life, and could tell interesting stories of strange places and people. He had also read a great deal, and could talk of various authors, and quote poetry on all occasions. As a soldier and an Italian, he had, I believe, done himself honour.

I wish I could think that there was some foundation of truth in the passionate attachment which he professed for Ida. I suppose he was fond of her, somewhat, for I do not see what reason he could have had for pretending it. He said himself, afterwards, by way of excuse, that he was “blinded by passion”: so let it be. Ida was then just seventeen, growing prettier every day, a delicate, spiritual little creature, looking as if the wind might blow her away; and this military hero, with the broad shoulders and the fair hair, threw himself at her feet, so to say; courted her passionately, desperately; and Ida gave him her heart unreservedly, and trusted him as she trusted her father and mother. I sometimes fancy that this man made love to Ida at first partly to amuse himself, to see if he could not put something of this world into the heart of this gentle little saint, who lived always, as it were, half in heaven. But if so, he was disappointed. This love once admitted into her heart became, like all her other feelings, something sacred and noble; so that, even at this day, it seems to me in a certain way to ennoble the object of it, unworthy as he was; and I cannot say a word that might bring discredit on his name.

He wished to marry her immediately; and her father and mother, simple, pious, kind-hearted people, who would have given their lives for the happiness of their children, consented willingly. They knew that he was poor and an orphan, but they were not ambitious for their pretty daughter; and they promised to take him home, and keep him as a son of their own. But now came the difficulty. L——[2] was an officer in the army, and by the present law in Italy an officer, until he reaches some particular rank—I think that of colonel,—is not permitted to marry, unless the woman of his choice has a certain amount of dowry. L—— had about two years and a half left to serve in the army, before he would be entitled to a pension. Now, Ida was so very young that there seemed nothing very dreadful in the idea of waiting, but her lover was a great deal too ardent for that. His proposal was—and he would hear of nothing else—that they should be married immediately by a religious marriage, leaving the civil marriage—the only one now legal—until another time, when his career in the army should be finished. The poor child knew nothing of civil and religious marriages, but she was a little frightened at the idea that her marriage would be a secret from the whole world; and altogether she was far from happy,—he told her so many things that she was never to tell any one, and such fearful ruin was to overtake them both if ever their union was discovered. Meanwhile he was very tender and grateful and reverential, not only to her but to all the family. Now at last—so he used to say—“he knew what it was to have a home and a mother! What a mercy that he, who had suffered so much in his wandering life, who had been so lonely and friendless, should have anchored at last in that peaceful Christian home?” That was the way he used to talk.

Meanwhile Giulia, the sensible, clear-sighted Giulia, whose heart was all bound up in her little sister, felt an unspeakable antipathy to L——. On the same day when Ida’s second letter arrived at S. Marcello, explaining to me her circumstances, one came also from Giulia, giving her version of the story, no way differing from Ida’s in the facts, but even more sad and frightened. “I cannot tell you, dear Signora Francesca,” she wrote, “in what a state of continual agitation I pass my time at present, and how unhappy I am about our Ida. God grant that all may go well! Mother has gone to the priest to-day to see what they can do.” I knew afterwards that Giulia, finding all persuasions fail with her sister (and indeed she had nothing then to bring up against L——, except her instinctive dread and dislike of him), entreated her mother, even with tears, to prevent the marriage by any means whatever. But the good Signora Martina (who was just as pretty, and gentle, and soft-hearted as Ida herself) could not bear the pale, wasting face of her younger daughter, and her little hands that were growing so thin, and her sad voice; and she thought that it all came of her love for the captain, and that, if she consented to the secret marriage, Ida would grow bright and happy again.

I, at that time, knew almost nothing about such things, and could not therefore advise very strongly on one side or the other. But it pleased the Lord that the worst should not happen to our Ida. L—— was called away from Florence at a few hours’ notice, to join his regiment, on the very day before the one fixed for the marriage. The government was just then making its preparations for the taking of Rome. What she suffered from this separation is not to be told, yet I feel that it was a providence to save her from far greater evil. When we came back to Florence in September I found Ida quite changed in appearance, but patient and resigned as she always was—willing, as she said, to leave all in the Lord’s hand. “Her L—— was so good!” she used to tell me: “he had been so kind to his own family!” in particular to his brother’s widow, who had been left in destitution with two little children, and to whom he was continually sending money, though he had so little to send. He did not, however, wish to have anything said about this woman, as he feared that Ida’s parents might not so willingly consent to the marriage, if they knew that he was so burdened. L—— always had a great many things that he did not wish anything said about. Giulia, however, had her suspicions, and I had mine, about this brother’s widow. We both spoke about them—Giulia, I rather think, pretty freely—to Ida. She had resolution enough, when right and wrong were concerned; and without saying anything to Giulia she went to the post-office, and inquired of the people employed there, if her lover were really in the habit of sending money to Naples, where his sister-in-law lived, and to whom. A record is always kept at the post-office of all the money that comes and goes, so that it was easy to ascertain the truth. And she found that he frequently sent money to a woman in Naples, bearing the same family name as himself. So she and I and Giulia were all quite satisfied. There was a depth of wickedness that we could not imagine, and that even now I find it hard fully to believe, with all the proofs before me!

And now the Italian troops were preparing to march upon Rome, and we were all fearing a great battle; which really never came. We were all preparing lint and bandages, thinking that they might be wanted, as on former occasions; and my mother gave out work of this sort to all whom she could find to do it. Ida, I remember, refused to be paid for any work of this sort which she did for the army, saying, “Perhaps it may go for L——,”—and while she sat, very pale and quiet, over her lint-making in my room, I drew that picture of her which I called “La Fidanzata del Capitano,” which I think more like her than any of my other pictures, though not half so pretty as she was, for all that.

And now I am coming to the darkest part of my Ida’s history—a time when she suffered much, and which I do not like very well to think about. I said before that I did not know much then about civil marriage. The law had not been in operation more than a little while. But at the same time, I did not feel quite easy about this marriage which was to be kept a secret. It seemed to me that my poor Ida was passing into a perfect network of secrets and mystery. I knew that the captain intended to marry her when he should come back from Rome—and that would probably be very soon. So I consulted a friend, who knew more about such things than I did, and she told me just what this religious marriage was—that is, as far as its consequences for this world were concerned, no marriage at all. Then I thought that I ought to tell Ida what she was doing,—which was not very easy, for I knew how her heart was bound up in L——.

One day, up there in my room, we talked it all over, and I told her, as gently as I could, all that had been told to me. She was much shocked and distressed, and shed a great many tears, but quietly. What affected her most was the idea that such a marriage might bring misery on her children, if she should ever have any. “It must be fearful,” she said, “for a woman to feel remorse in the presence of her children,—to see them in misery and to think ‘I brought this trouble upon them!’” Then she added, “People have all been very cruel not to have told me these things before! I knew that I could not have borne such a life.” Still, she was not willing at that time to make me a definite promise that she would not do it. I was anxious that she should do so, as we were about going away for a month’s visit to Padova and Bassano. During that month I knew that L—— was expected in Florence, and I feared his influence upon her. Ida was so very gentle, and usually so submissive to those about her, that I did not then comprehend the true strength and determination of her character.

A day or two afterwards she came to say goodbye before I went. “I had a sad night,” she said, “after our talk the other day; I could not sleep for thinking of L——. But you must not think hardly of him: he has always meant well, but he is a passionate, impulsive man, and does not know always how to stop and think of the consequences. You must not be anxious about me while you are away. I cannot make you any promise just now, but I have quite resolved never to marry until we can be married legally, and I hope that I can promise you this when you come back.” During the month that we were away I heard no more of Ida, and those to whom I told her story shook their heads, and prophesied that the captain would have it all his own way when he should come to Florence. I did not think so, but I kept silence, for I had no reason for my faith, excepting a certain look in Ida’s beautiful eyes when she said those words to me,—a look humble and yet steadfast, as of one strong in another’s strength,—a look that I would give a good deal if I could put in some of my pictures of saints.

When at last I did come back, Ida came to my room as soon as she heard that I was there. She looked pale and frightened and ill, and began to talk almost before she was in the room, as if she had something that she was in a great hurry to say. “I have come to make you that promise, Signora Francesca, which I could not make you before you went away. I promise you that I will never marry L——, nor any one else, excepting by a lawful marriage.” “I thought,” I said, “that you had come to tell me this, and I am very thankful to hear it.” “And I have been in such a hurry,” she said, “for you to come home, that I might say this to you. I have been afraid always that my courage would not hold out.” I then asked her to tell me exactly how it had all gone. She said that L—— had come back from Rome about a week before, fully prepared for the marriage. She had not told him of her change of resolution before his return—she could not make up her mind to write it to him: but as soon as he came, and she had a chance to speak to him alone, she told him all that I had told her, saying that she had consented at first to the religious marriage in ignorance, but that she was now convinced that it would be wrong. At first he seems to have thought, as every one else thought, that he could make Ida do what he pleased; then, when he found that she stood firm against all his persuasions, he went into a passion, and terrified the poor girl beyond measure with his violence, still without shaking her resolution. And then he left her in anger, and went away from Florence without seeing her again, and she had not heard from him since. She had been ill—had been three days confined to her bed—and she looked half dead; and I noticed then, for the first time, that peculiar tone in her voice which it never afterwards lost.

Still, she said that she was not sorry for what she had done, let it end as it might. It was all in God’s hands now, and as He had ordered it, so it would be. She had been very unhappy, but she felt less so now that I had come; and it would certainly have been a great deal worse if she had married L—— first, and found out all these things afterwards. I tried to comfort her, though I myself felt a good deal shocked and surprised at the turn which things had taken. I told her that if L—— really cared for her he would write to her again, and would be willing to wait for the two years and a half. “I cannot feel,” she said, “as if it could ever come right now, but we shall see.”

Two days afterwards she really did receive a very penitent and affectionate letter from L——, which she brought to me; but she was not very much cheered by it. She still loved L——, but she no longer trusted him, though she always tried to excuse his conduct in speaking of him; but I do not know if there be anything in the world more unhappy than love without trust. He had been ordered to Sicily, to fight the brigands, and they were not likely to meet again for many months. I did not quite know what to make of this letter: it was very fervent in its expressions of affection, full of desperate sorrow for the long and inevitable separation. But there was not a word in it about marriage. I noticed the same thing in his succeeding letters, which for a long time she always brought for me to read. Some of them were very beautiful letters, full of interesting descriptions, and of much tender and lofty sentiment. He would speak of her as “the lamp that gave light to his life”; he sent many affectionate and reverential messages to “the dear mother whom he loved as his own” (and only to think of the trouble that he brought on this dear mother!), but he never spoke of their marriage, or of their future home. Besides, his letters were, to my mind, just a little too virtuous, too full of sensitive shrinking from other people’s sins, pathetic lamentations about the wickedness of the Sicilians, and paternal advice to Ida, who was so much better than he was! That style may do very well for a clergyman, but I rather distrust it in a military man. However, I supposed that all would end well, and that there was probably some reason, more than I knew, for whatever seemed strange in L——’s conduct. I tried to keep up Ida’s courage—more, I think now, than I should have done—but she was gradually coming to talk less about L——; less, indeed, about anything. She liked better than anything else to sit and read when she came to my room. She took her choice always of my books, generally choosing poetry—religious poetry rather than anything else; and she used to read aloud to me with great simplicity of manner (for she had never been taught declamation), but with a certain tone in her voice which invariably put me into tears, so that I sometimes had to stop her reading, as it made me unable to go on with my work. The room which had been occupied by L—— when he lived in Florence had now been taken by a married couple; the husband was an officer, and his wife married to him only by a religious marriage. This poor woman was very unhappy, and she confided her troubles to Ida, who often spoke to me about her. Once she said to me that I had done a great deal for her in many ways (this was only a fancy of hers, arising out of her strong affection for me), but never so much as when I had prevented the religious marriage; that she should have died if she had found herself in the condition of her poor neighbour. It was a comfort to me that she said so, as I had begun to feel almost sorry for the part which I had taken, seeing how she was pining, and to wish that I had not interfered about this marriage, which, after all, however dangerous, would not have been regarded by the Church as sinful. But I knew now that I did right in that matter. She gradually stopped bringing L——’s letters for me to read; and when I spoke of him, she used to tell me that the feeling was strong in her mind that she should never be L——’s wife, and that she tried not to think too much about it, nor to set her heart upon it, but to keep herself “ready for the Lord’s will, whatever it might be.”

One day she found a New Testament in my room,[3] the first which she had ever seen; and after that she never cared so much for any other book, but would sit and read chapter after chapter with never-failing delight, only interrupting herself now and then to say, “How beautiful!” When Giulia had a holiday she used to come also, and she was as much pleased with the Testament as her sister. The two girls would sit by me while I painted, by the hour together, and one would read till her voice was tired, and then hand the book to her sister; and so they would go on taking turns until they would read often more than twenty chapters at once. When I found they did not grow tired of it, I gave them a Testament to keep for themselves, and such was their excitement that they sat up reading it nearly all the first night after they had it.

Meanwhile, poor Ida had continued to grow thin and pale, and did not eat enough for a sparrow. We took her to our good English doctor, but he was not able to do much for her, and indeed could not tell what was the matter with her. He thought that the room where she slept was unhealthy, as there was no window in it. The family, being poor, were obliged to let all their good rooms, and to occupy all the dark and inconvenient ones themselves; so that Ida and Giulia and their little niece Luisa slept all together in what was really nothing more than a dark closet. He thought also that she had injured herself by drawing water for her mother, who took in washing. So Giulia, out of her small earnings, hired a woman to come every day and draw the water, and the poet received notice to leave his room at the beginning of the next month. This was the less loss, as he had not paid his rent for some time, and the family were also frequently obliged to give him his dinner, because, as Ida told me, “they could not eat their own meal in comfort while there was a man in the house with nothing to eat.” He said, when told that he must leave, as Ida was ill and needed the room, that, being for that reason, he could not refuse; and when the time came he walked away majestically, with a bundle of manuscript and a pair of old shoes, which appeared to constitute his whole property. And now, as I shall never say anything more about the poet, I will add to his credit, that he afterwards came back, to everybody’s astonishment, and paid up all his debts, having obtained employment, I believe, to write for a republican newspaper.

So that year finished and another came; and Ida had a little cough, but no one thought much of it. We went away again into the country for two months, and during that time the sisters wrote to me twice, and Ida’s letters were happy and affectionate, and she seemed to enjoy her new room (which was the very one that looked away into the country), and she spoke again of L——, as I thought, more hopefully.

We went back to Florence about the first of September, and I found Ida still ailing, but with nothing particular the matter with her. She was studying for an examination so that she might also be a teacher, and she said that L—— wished it. He had now (I believe) only a year and a little more left to serve in the army, and during that time he expected to come to Florence for a visit. I told her that the time would pass soon, and that the long waiting was nearly over, and she and L—— would be happy now before very long. To this she only answered—“As God has destined it, so will it be.” I thought sometimes that she had become indifferent to her lover, or else that she was frightened about her own health, and did not expect to recover. I did not like to have her study so much, as I was sure it hurt her; but about that it was of no use for me to talk. L——’s will was law to her, if only it did not interfere with her own conscience.

Her cough had increased, and she could not read to me very often. Then one night she was taken ill with insupportable pains in her shoulders, which lasted for several hours, and then left her as weak as a baby. That was the beginning of the end.

Poor Giulia suffered more, I think, than her sister. She was now herself engaged to be married, and should naturally have been saving a little money for her wedding outfit. But of this she thought nothing; there was no room in her heart now for anything but Ida. All that she could save she spent daily in an attempt, nearly vain, to buy something that her sister could eat, and then she would come to my room, crying bitterly, to tell me of her failures and of Ida’s constantly progressing illness. But Ida continued to come to my room all that winter and spring, and the change in her for the worse was so very gradual that I was not much frightened about her. She seemed cheerful and interested in everything about her, as indeed she always had been. She was more beautiful than ever, and might have turned the heads of half the men in Florence if she had been so disposed, for as a general rule all those who saw her fell more or less in love with her. But Ida, kind and friendly in her manners with all those who treated her respectfully and kept their distance, would shrink into herself, and become quite unapproachable at the least shadow of a compliment; so that I do not think, after all, that any of her numerous admirers ever went so far as to make themselves very unhappy about her, seeing from the first that she was out of their reach.

All the poor people used to call her “Signora,” now that she was grown up, though her condition was no higher than their own. I am sure that it was not that she was better dressed than themselves (excepting in the one matter of neatness), still less that she gave herself any airs of superiority, for she was humble almost to a fault, willing to act as servant to the lowest amongst them if she could be of any use,[4] ready on all occasions to take the lowest place. But there was a certain peculiar refinement and unconscious loftiness about her which we all felt, and which raised her above other people.

And the summer came again, and this time we had to go away earlier than in other years because we had a friend very ill in Venice, who wished us to come to him. Ida came to take leave of me as I was preparing to leave my painting room, and she seemed more sorry to have me go than she had ever been before. She loved dearly that room where we had first met, and where we had spent so many hours together, some sad and some happy: it had always been one of her principal cares to put it in order when she came to me, and to bring flowers for it, and to make it look as pleasant and pretty as she could. And on that day she walked around it slowly, stopping often that she might look long on each one of the objects grown, in the course of time, to be like familiar friends. And then she came up to me and kissed me, and I saw that her eyes were overflowing with tears. I wonder if the thought was in her mind that she should never see the place again.