vailed on to visit them; thus doing for pity what he had refused to do for interest.
"My good child," said the old man, after seeing his patient, "I might have staid at home; the poor lady is far beyond all human assistance—a little care and a little kindness is all she will want on this side the grave—just let her do what she likes."
It was late, and he hurried to mount his mule, but not till—for his heart was touched by her desolate and deserted condition—not till he had told Beatrice he would always be glad to render her any service. Whether Donna Margaretta connected any vague idea with the stranger, or whether it was the mere instinct of weakness, it is impossible to tell, but from that day a strange terror of death fell upon her; she could not bear to be left for a moment—she would wake in the night and implore Beatrice piteously to save her. This impression was, however, as transitory as it was violent. As she grew weaker, she grew calmer and more affectionate. She would lean her head for hours on Beatrice's shoulder, only now and then applying to her some childish and endearing epithet. She was soon too much reduced to leave her bed; they used to raise her head with pillows, and
