“No, no, no,” Isola protested hurriedly. “No, we can never meet again in this world. I took my farewell of her in the church. I meant it to be farewell. I was very happy for her sake when I saw her married to the man she loved. It was a selfish repining that made me ask for her just now. I would not have her summoned here for worlds. She is so happy at Venice--happy in her honeymoon dream. Tell her nothing, Martin--nothing till you can tell her that my days have ended peacefully. She has borne her burden for me in the past. I want her to be free from all care about me--but not to forget me.” “She will not forget, Isola. She loves you fondly and truly.” “Yes, I am sure of that. She was dearer to me than my own sister--cared for me much more than Gwendolen ever cared, though Gwen and I were always good friends. Poor feather-headed Gwen! She writes me affectionate letters, hoping she may get to Italy in the autumn, though it is impossible for her to come just now. And mother and father write to me just in the same way--mother regretting that her health won’t allow her to leave Dinan; father hoping to see me in the autumn. Their letters are full of hopefulness,” she concluded, with a faint touch of irony. Her husband read to her for the greater part of the long gloomy day. He read St. Thomas à Kempis for some part of the time. The book had been on the little table by her side throughout her illness. He read two or three of Frederick Robertson’s sermons, and for occasional respite from too serious thought he read her favourite poems--Adonaïs, Alastor, and some of Shelley’s lovely lyrics, and those passages in Childe Harold which had acquired a new charm for her since she had grown familiar with Rome. “Read to me about Venice,” she said, “and let me think of Allegra and Captain Hulbert. I love to fancy them gliding along those narrow, picturesque streets, in the great, graceful, ponderous gondola I remember so well. It is so nice to know of their happiness--and to know that they need never be parted.” So the long summer day--without the glow and glory of summer--wore on, and except for her excessive languor and feebleness there were no indications that the patient’s state was any worse than it had been for some weeks. The doctor came late in the afternoon, and felt her pulse, and talked to her a little; but it was easy to see that his visit was only a formula. “You have such an excellent nurse, Mrs. Disney, that I consider my position almost a sinecure,” he said, smiling at the faithful Tabitha, who stood waiting for his instructions, and who never forgot the minutest detail.