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open his letter, but, to her astonishment, he had not touched it. It lay, as if forgotten, on the counterpane where she had placed it.

"You can give me my coffee," he said, and, leaning back on the pillows, twined his arms together above his head and languidly closed his eyes.

Wondering much, she hastened to the kitchen. "He doesn't like to open it before me, for fear it may contain bad news," she thought. "Poor Sign' Clemente! I needn't hurry with the coffee. He will read it now."

He did not read it then. He lay perfectly motionless as she had left him, and waited. He was naturally pale; but his face looked so white now against the pillows that with his eyes closed he seemed to be dead.

Count Clemente Fantini was a handsome man, tall, straight, lithe, with a rather long face, a slender, pointed beard, a long, slender moustache, and hair so arranged as to seem more abundant than it was. After his toilet is made, that small bald spot on the top of his head will not be visible. Hair and beard were of a jet-black, but the eyes were green-gray, and had a way of seeming to look at nothing, probably because their owner knew that their glance was very piercing. Altogether, the Signor Clemente was a very gentlemanly-looking man.

Martina came in with a little brass tray holding a service for black coffee. Her master roused himself as from a half-sleep, sat up, and yawned. She poured the coffee, stirred the sugar in for him, and gave him the cup. He deliberately drank its contents, and, as he gave it back, asked languidly, "What have you bought me this morning, Martina?"

"Artichokes," she replied shortly. "There's nothing else to be had."

The gentleman, sunk into his pillows again, looked mildly critical. "Artichokes are good for nothing but to soak up oil," he remarked.

"Oh, as to that," Martina said, "the Signora Paula's brother-in-law has sent her a boccione of oil. We shan't have to buy any more here," with an emphasis born of her rising displeasure.

"Very well, then," her master returned, yawning: "dress them 'alla Judea.' And drain them well on a cloth. And, Martina, be sure that you use only the blossoms of the penny-royal. The leaves are too strong, and, besides, they harden and look black. And now you may give me the hot water."

This meant dismissal, as the hot water was invariably left outside the chamber door, with three light taps and a subdued "Hot water, Sign' Clemente!"

Stupefied, Martina went out of the room without a word; but as soon as she was outside of the door her stupor burst into anger, as smoke into flame. What did he mean by ignoring that letter and not letting her know what it contained? She, who had been the confidante of all their miseries, not to know if there was hope for them in this last strait! Who but she had sold the kitchen copper for them, they pretending to know nothing about it? Who but she had got a cousin in Rome to sell their bed- and table-linen, all but enough for decency? Who else had refused to gossip about them and their affairs, and studied out lies to maintain their grandeur? To whom else did they owe two years of service?

At this point, with tears of rage bursting from her eyes, Martina took the kitchen door between her two hands and banged it with all her strength. It did not make the unmistakable crash she had meant it should: so she opened and banged it again, shaking that part of the house with the concussion.

To be sure, it did not take much to make the house tremble, for it was cracked in forty places and sinking in forty more. At the farther end, a ten minutes' walk from their present quarters, in the time of the old countess the whole corner next the chapel had rattled down one fine morning, and scared the poor old priest who was saying mass there into a paralytic stroke, from which he never recovered. He had thought that it was an earthquake. She hoped