She thanked him heartily each time, and assured him that she and the child were well; but her letters were laconic, and she wrote not one syllable of that which occupied her mind. If she really believed that isolation would heal her sore heart, she deceived herself. Day and night the picture of her father's death-bed was before her eyes; even by the cradle of her baby she heard her father's curse. And perhaps it was well that the illness of Annunciata caused the care of the child to devolve entirely upon the mother. Another nurse could not be found, and they were obliged to give the poor baby artificial food. The care and anxiety which this caused numbed somewhat the other grievous sorrow. February came to an end. Spring flowers bloomed in the villa gardens, and the breezes were warmer than in June in the north country, where were her thoughts. The baby could now pass long hours in the open air, on the sunny terrace behind the house, where Annunciata, still his nurse, would hold him on her lap, Judith sitting beside him, leaning over now and then to kiss his tiny hands. The boy would smile when he saw his mother and stroke her face, and then only a ghost of a smile would light up her careworn features. As they were sitting thus one March day, Jan announced a friar who desired to speak with the count. Although Annunciata was unable to understand the message given in Polish, still Jan's voice was lowered to a whisper when he added, "He is from Galicia, and knows our real name. I have told him repeatedly, 'The count is away,' but he always replies, 'Tell him; he is sure to receive me,' and he won't go." "Bring him here, then," ordered Judith. The monk, an old bent man, with long white beard, appeared. "Praised be Jesus Christ!" he began, bowing low. When Judith made no response, he added, "In all eternity, Amen!" "Do you wish to speak to my husband?" she asked. "He left here just before New Year's, and it is uncertain when he will return. He is now on his estate in Podolia." "Most gracious countess," said the old man, in a quavering voice, "I must speak to him. Please tell him." "If you do not believe me," said Judith, curtly and proudly, "I have nothing more to say." The man fell back a step. "Forgive," he pleaded, "but it is so terrible for me, so terrible!" he repeated, in such a changed voice that Judith regarded him with astonishment. "I have made this long journey," he resumed, in his old weak voice, "only that I might speak to him." "Can you tell me?" "No, that is impossible;" but he retained his position, notwithstanding. "What else do you want?" she asked. The monk answered nothing, but Jan said, "The reverend gentleman would not despise a meal and a small gift, perhaps." "You can give him both," said Judith, turning again to the child. When she looked up again the monk had followed Jan into the hall.